


Solid Gold

by alby_mangroves, rohkeutta



Series: From What Seemed Like A Ruin [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Art, Bearded Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Chronic Pain, Curtain Fic, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Falconry, Fluff, Happy Ending, Illustrated, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Making Love, Minor Angst, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Sam Wilson, POV Steve Rogers, Sequel, Steve Rogers Feels, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 21:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: Life settles onto its track.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaliFornia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliFornia/gifts).



> This is my last Fandom Loves Puerto Rico fic, mere 1.5 years late. Big thank you to CaliFornia for donating and all the patience while I got my crap together, and Gerry for test reading!  
> And enormous thanks to Alby for sparring, beta, cheering, and the INCREDIBLE art! <3
> 
> This fic picks up very close to where From What Seemed Like A Ruin ended, and it doesn't stand on its own, so I wholeheartedly recommend reading or re-reading the previous fic to (re)acquiant yourselves with the characters and the story.
> 
> Title is from Pink Rabbits by The National.

It feels wrong to watch Steve leave.

That’s what Bucky’s brain keeps coming back to as he stands in the yard, watching Steve wipe fresh snow off the car and check that the wipers don’t have ice on them before scraping frost off the windshield. It feels _wrong_ on a level Bucky can’t describe, hands curling into fists on his sides no matter how hard he tries to beat it back. Steve’s not leaving for good and Bucky knows it, but still there’s a knot of dread in his stomach, going tighter and tighter as the clean patch on the windshield grows.

Barely six days, and it’s like Bucky never lived without Steve in the first place, distress a low thrum under his skin at the thought of Steve driving away from him.

Something must show on his face, because when Steve’s ready to go and glances at Bucky, his expression goes all soft and he strides back, grabbing Bucky into a gigantic hug.

“Hey, Buck, it’s just a few hours, right?” Steve’s tone is reassuring, but his arms are just a little too tight around Bucky’s waist to not be desperate, like he doesn’t want to leave either. “I’m gonna return the rental and check out the car deals Bill found. I’ll be back before dark.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says against his shoulder stupidly, acting like he’s sending Steve off to-- a fucking _war,_ or something, when he’s just gonna drive down to Bangor and come back. He doesn’t want to let Steve out of his sight, and even more than that he doesn’t want to let Steve out of reach of his hands.

Human touch is a strange thing. Bucky’s survived without it just fine for months; fuck, he’s survived without it for decades, but ever since Steve put his hands on Bucky’s back and clung to him in the kitchen six days ago, he’s been itching for it constantly. They’ve been attached at the hip for almost a week, and his skin feels warmer when it’s being touched, like fuses lit up under his shell.

Steve squeezes him and lets go abruptly, grinning as if he’s not curling his hands into fists at the same time, maybe to stop himself from clinging. “I’ll call if something turns up. Love you.”

Bucky shivers: from the cold or the declaration, he couldn’t tell. It’s heady, hearing it, no matter how casual Steve’s tone is - and maybe it _is_ the ease with which it’s said that makes something hot and content curl in Bucky’s belly. “Drive safely,” he says, touching Steve’s bearded jaw with his fingertips.

That’s the closest to ‘love you too’ he’s capable of, for now, nowhere near enough to convey the whole swelling tide of feelings in his chest, but it makes Steve smile like he understands anyway.

Steve walks backwards, holding Bucky’s eye until he bumps into the car and has to break eye contact to get inside. Bucky waves at him as he goes, and shuffles to the garage to get the shovel out. He might as well be useful and clear out the route between the garage and the house while he’s waiting.

“Hi Jamie,” Irina says when Bucky peeks into the kitchen after shoveling. She’s doing an inventory in the pantry, and the kitchen table is filled with jars. “Did Steve leave?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, tiptoeing in on his socked feet, boots left at the front door. “Is Bill out?”

“He went to help Mariyam and Jacob.” Irina puts two more jars onto the table. “They bought a new bed, and delivery would’ve cost an arm and a leg. Bill is cheaper, all he asks for is some coffee.” She points at a chair. “Sit down, sweetie, I wanna know how you’re doing.”

Bucky does as he’s told, taking a closer look at the jars on the table: blackcurrant jam, pickled carrots, canned pears. Bucky had already missed the harvest when he arrived in town, but it’s a new year, and maybe he and Steve will have some jars in their pantry for the upcoming winter, too.

“Spill the beans, Jamie,” Irina orders. “I’ve barely seen you in a week. How is it?”

“It’s good,” Bucky says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, cheeks flushing with the memory of the easy _love you_ Steve threw as he left. “It’s-- really good.”

“He treating you well?”

“God, yeah,” Bucky says wistfully. “I forgot how nice just being with him could be."

Irina clicks the electric kettle on and pulls out tea bags and honey, puts a mug down in front of Bucky. She has to move a couple of jars onto the kitchen counter to make room. “Yeah?”

Bucky hesitates a little. From the moment he looked up from Ruth on the hillside and saw Steve for real for the first time since 1945, he’s felt like he’s walking in a fog where Steve is the only bright beacon of light, cutting through. It never felt like that before, even when he was missing Steve so much that his whole body ached, but now he keeps stumbling forward, desperate to stay in that light.

It feels strange to be wanted so fiercely by someone, in any way possible. They’re still figuring it out, trying to navigate their way around each other, and Bucky never wants it to end.

“I’m crazy about him,” Bucky confesses finally. “I-- I never thought I could have him like this.”

He never thought he could have Steve like this, because he never allowed himself that luxury. He used to dream about a home for the two of them, of course, because in the war everybody dreamt about surviving and getting to live on with their sweethearts. In the perfect world, Bucky would have emerged from the war untouched by death and blood, and gone home to find Steve waiting for him, merely brushed by the tragedy. But Steve went out to seek his own destiny, instead: he came for Bucky in Kreischberg, unknowingly killing his dream of getting home - because where Steve went, Bucky followed, and Steve belonged to the world, now.

Afterwards, back on his own feet, when he longed for Steve, he never really entertained the idea that Steve might actually _stay,_ instead of visiting occasionally like Bucky was a mistress, kept happy somewhere out of the way. Maybe that’s why it’s so heady, to know that he’s enough to make Steve settle down and grow roots; to really keep him.

There are a lot of ugly things inside Steve now, just like there have always been, more or less hidden under the surface, and Bucky wants every single one of them. He wants all of them: the bitterness and the anger and the grieving; he wants to consume and chew them up and make them his. It shouldn’t make him so happy, knowing that Steve’s filled to the brim with so much awfulness, but it does; it does, because Bucky’s the only person in the world who can match it.

Irina puts a tea bag into his mug and pours hot water over it, sweeping an errant lock of hair from his face with her free hand. “You deserve it, baby,” she says, and suddenly Bucky feels like crying.

Because it’s such a maternal gesture, affection seeping from Irina’s voice, her fingers cool and gentle on his temple, and Bucky’s mother has been dead for decades and he never got to see her again; and he keeps fucking _missing_ her so hard, finally able to mourn his family.

He tries to wipe off the threatening tears as Irina turns to place the kettle back on the counter. “Yeah,” he says, voice wobbly. He doesn’t know which cosmic power thought he could’ve used some guidance, but he’s beyond grateful for ending up with Irina and Bill anyway.

Irina just smiles at him, and pushes the honey closer.

**

When Bucky took Steve to Matthew’s on that first, magical morning, it was freezing, and Steve held his hand on the short stretch of road where there were no houses to spy on them from. Steve let go when they came to the edge of the town, but it made Bucky ache nevertheless. They had never been able to do that before: there was no road in their history where it would’ve been acceptable for them to walk hand in hand, even in secret.

They went in through the back door, because it was breakfast time and Bucky wanted to introduce Steve to Matthew without any prying eyes. “I lived upstairs before Bill offered me a place,” he told Steve when they closed the door behind them. “Matthew was the first to take me in, back in September.”

“He just took you in?” Steve asked, looking around curiously, peering up the staircase like he wanted to climb up to see the tiny room Bucky had lived in. “No questions?”

Bucky shrugged, tugging off his beanie and mittens. “I was kind of a sorry sight, and Matthew’s got a big heart.”

Steve smiled at that, touched Bucky’s hip and said, “Now you’re just a sight, especially for sore eyes like mine.”

“Flatterer,” Bucky said, unable to keep a smile off his face.

“Jamie?” Matthew’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen, nearing the hallway. “Have you started talking to your-- Oh.” He paused in the kitchen doorway when he spotted Steve, who was looming uncertainly near the door.

“Hey Matthew,” Bucky said. “Sorry to barge in like this.”

“No problem.” Matthew eyed Steve with an unreadable expression. “Who’s this?”

“Steve,” Bucky said, and Steve sidestepped him, reaching out to Matthew to shake his hand. “He’s my-- my--” Bucky searched for the proper word, and when he couldn’t find it, finished lamely with, “Steve.”

Matthew knew there had been someone for Bucky, a long time ago, before he went to war and everything fell apart. It was easy enough to see that the pieces had already started to come together in Matthew’s head when he shook Steve’s hand, scrutinizing him in a way Bucky had never seen before.

“Matthew Burr,” he said finally. Bucky was pretty sure he was trying to intimidate Steve by squeezing his hand too hard.

“Good to meet you,” Steve said politely, glanced at Bucky as if to gauge his reaction, and Bucky shrugged one shoulder, steeled himself just in case. It was better to get the truth finally out, at least to Matthew who’d had nothing but kindness for him. “Steve Rogers.”

It didn’t take long to click. Matthew froze, eyes narrowing, skimming over Steve’s face, and then he turned to look at Bucky, and his eyes went huge with surprise and recognition.

“Jesus fuck, Jamie,” Matthew said after a short, stunned silence. “Is _that_ why every new dish is such an adventure to you?”

**

When Bucky returns from the fields at dusk, Ruth perched on his fist, Steve’s leaning against a slightly beaten-up truck in front of the garage. He looks tired but satisfied, and his eyes crinkle with happiness when he spots Bucky approaching down the road. It makes warmth pool into Bucky’s chest, and he speeds up without thinking, pulled forward by the gravity of Steve’s contentment.

“Hey,” Steve calls as soon as Bucky is close enough. “What do you think?”

Ruth wiggles happily on Bucky’s arm at the sight of Steve, making funny little noises through her beak. They’ve been taking walks with her every day to get Steve and her acquainted and to show what life up here is for Bucky, and it’s astonishing how quickly she’s gotten used to him, even if Steve is still mesmerized and wary of her.

Bucky eyes the truck: it’s dark green and nowhere near mint condition, but there’s no rust and the upholstery is in good shape when he peeks inside. It doesn’t smell like Wunderbaum either, which is a blessing. “How was the drive?”

“It runs well.” Steve extends his gloved hand carefully towards Ruth, mouth stretching into a grin when she lets him scritch her chest. “Good steering and brakes, that’s why I bought it.”

“Good,” Bucky says, and in a fit of bravery leans up and kisses him on the mouth. It’s short and chaste, and Steve’s beard is bristly against his lips, but Steve lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree, a look of giddiness and wonder on his face.

Bucky’s face heats up, and he turns towards the door, mumbling, “Welcome back.”

Steve’s arms circle his waist before he can walk away, and then Steve’s laughing into his ear, squishing him. “I’m glad to be back,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth as he leans into Steve.

Steve’s content to just hold him for a while. Bucky’s head is tipped back against Steve’s shoulder, and Ruth is shuffling on his fist, bored. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so entirely, utterly content.

Then Steve murmurs, “I think Irina is watching us from the kitchen window.”

“She’s probably waiting for the chance to feed you,” Bucky says, and Steve snorts, his arms tightening a little. Privately Bucky thinks that she must be watching to get a confirmation and a peace of mind; to see if they really are as happy as Bucky told her.

Steve kisses his temple, lips brushing against the hair that’s spilling out from under Bucky’s beanie, and says, “Maybe tomorrow,” in a tone that’s low and soft, as if everything he wants from life is to go inside and have dinner with Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees and turns his head so that he can push his forehead against Steve’s woolen scarf. “Tomorrow.”

**

“Bill and Irina’s grandkids are coming over today,” Bucky says around his toothbrush two days later, checking his phone. He’s been in the Meadows’ group chat since mid-February: a clear proof that he’s part of the family, now.

He feels half-asleep after a shoddy, fitful night. The seam of his metal arm is aching; the coming-and-going inflammation has flared up again, but thankfully not badly. He needs to be careful with it, though, and avoid scrubbing Matthew’s floors for a few days.

Steve looks up from the drawer he’s rooting through in search of a clean pair of socks. His hair is still dripping from the shower he took after his asscrack-of-dawn run, and the collar of his long-sleeved t-shirt is looking uncomfortably damp. He’s been eyeing Bucky’s left shoulder all morning with that endearing divot between his brows like he wants to say something. Bucky knows he should tell Steve about the ache, reassure him that he’ll be fine soon, but the state of his body after HYDRA is a can of worms Bucky’s not ready to open just yet.

“Okay,” Steve says, and Bucky pops back into the bathroom and chucks Steve’s towel at him. Steve catches it easily with a grateful smile and rubs it furiously over his head. It looks so easy and effortless compared to how carefully Bucky has to squeeze the water from his hair and wrap it up in a towel to dry it, and for a split second he can’t decide if he’s charmed or envious. “Do I have to do something?”

Steve’s hair is sticking out every which way when he pulls the towel off and tosses it over his shoulder, and Bucky’s chest feels suddenly impossibly wide and warm with affection.

“No, just be yourself,” he says to cover the way his body goes all tingly with emotions, and goes to spit and rinse his mouth. “Or maybe show off your muscles, they’ll want to use you as a jungle gym anyway.”

Steve’s laughter is bright and fills Bucky up like hot soup on a cold evening, as he pulls out a hairbrush and starts working the tangles out. It will be good to see the kids: it’s always grounding for him, especially when he’s a little less steady on his feet and doubting if he really belongs in this town. It’s not the case now, with Steve cementing his home here, but the kids will be a welcome break in the strange codependent bubble they’ve been floating in. They could all trek to the hills to fly Ruth, maybe take Bill and Mabel with them.

Steve follows him into the bathroom to drape the towel up to dry. He strokes his beard absently, looking like he’s pondering trimming it, and Bucky watches him in the mirror. Steve looks good with the beard - it makes him look older, closer to how much he’s seen in his life, and it’s something that nobody else has a say in, except maybe Bucky, but he would never ask Steve to shave.

Steve catches Bucky’s eye and smiles at him in the mirror, scratching his chin a little, and Bucky smiles back, starts brushing his hair again. Steve watches until most of the tangles are out, then puts a broad, warm hand on Bucky’s hip, tugging. “Hey,” Steve says, and suddenly they’re kissing in front of the sink like a pair of dumbasses, Bucky craning his head to reach Steve’s mouth.

It’s easy, close-mouthed and intimate, like they’ve been necking in their shared bathroom for years. Then Steve, the bastard, tries to tickle him, and Bucky’s laughing as he shoves him away. “Let me go, Casanova, I gotta braid my hair.”

Steve’s grinning too, but his expression is soft and open as he touches Bucky’s hair and says, “You should teach me, I could do it.”

Bucky blinks. “Really?”

“Of course, Buck,” Steve says, suddenly way more serious than a discussion about hair requires. “I’d do anything for you.”

It’s clear he’s not just talking about braiding anymore, so Bucky brushes a tender hand over Steve’s bearded jaw and says, “I know. Let’s go for breakfast, and then I’ll show you.”

It takes almost an hour, but by the time Bill’s car door is slamming, letting them know he’s leaving to pick up the kids, Bucky’s hair is braided. It’s pretty shoddy and incredibly uneven, but Steve’s practically glowing with pride and happiness, and that makes the clumsy braid feel like a royal crown.

“It looks like shit, but I’m gonna practise,” Steve promises, stroking one curve of hair carefully with his finger.

Bucky doesn’t doubt that.

**

“Uncle Jamie,” Isaac yells as soon as Bucky steps out of the garage door, and both kids come barreling down from the porch towards him. Bill is left grinning, the front door half-opened to usher the kids in.

Bucky grabs Isaac under the arms as soon as he’s close enough, swinging him up. Isaac squeals with laughter, and Dominic bumps into Bucky’s hip, throwing his arms around his middle.

“Hey, boys, hey,” Bucky says, laughing, and hugs Isaac, perching him on his arm so that he can ruffle Dominic’s hair with his free hand. He _loves_ these damn kids, and he loves that he’s _Uncle Jamie_ to them, now.

“Uncle Jamie,” Isaac says into his ear in a voice that’s just a little too loud, and Bucky hides his wince. “We’re getting _a kitty._ Mom promised!”

“That’s awesome,” Bucky says, bouncing Isaac and making him laugh. “What color is it?”

“Brown,” Isaac says, grabbing the end of Bucky’s braid that’s resting on his shoulder. He’s bundled up in a snowsuit and squirming with excitement in Bucky’s arms. “Like your hair. But stripes.”

Bucky laughs, fondness seeping through. “That’s nice, we’ll match.”

“Who’re _you?”_ Dominic asks, and when Bucky looks down, he’s peeking around Bucky to stare at Steve.

“Yeah!” Isaac echoes, and Bucky turns around, urging Dominic closer to Steve with a hand on his upper back.

Steve looks a little startled, but then he relaxes, crouches down to Dominic’s eye level and says, “I’m Steve. I came to live with B-- Jamie.”

“Oh,” Dominic says, puffs his chest out and promptly thrusts his hand towards Steve. Bucky stifles a laugh; Dominic’s gotten even more forward since Bucky met the kids for the first time. “I’m Dominic.”

Steve shakes his hand solemnly. “Nice to meet you, Dominic. How old are you?”

“Almost seven,” Dominic says. “I’m starting school this year.”

“Wow, you’re pretty big then,” Steve says. “Are you excited to go to school?”

“Yeah!” Dominic’s serious face dissolves into giddiness, and he bounces on his toes. “My best friend is in the same class with me! I’m gonna be as smart as _Grandpa.”_

Steve smiles, and Bucky leans down to put Isaac back on his feet.

“This is Isaac,” Bucky says, because the kid’s suddenly gotten weirdly shy, clinging to Bucky’s leg. “He’s gonna be five in May.”

“Hey Isaac,” Steve says and waves, staying put, radiating calm in a way that’s impressive considering his bad track record with small people. Maybe it helps that these kids could be considered Bucky’s family; the only child Steve was ever good with was Bucky’s youngest sister, Alice. “Wanna tell me about that cat you’re getting?”

Bucky’s always been great with children; it came with having three younger sisters and dozens of cousins. But it’s been a long time since those years, and Bucky’s been actively ignoring thinking about his sisters or family ever since he got those memories back. Just the thought of looking them up and finding out what happened to them after his “death” makes bile rise up: yet more people he failed to return to; yet more people who grew old in his absence.

Isaac flushes and hides his face in Bucky’s pant leg. It’s such an Alice move that something twists in Bucky’s stomach suddenly, sharp and overpowering, but he swallows to ignore it, crouches and whispers loudly, “Did you know that Steve’s _even stronger_ than me?”

Isaac’s eyes go huge and round, and he glances at Steve speculatively. Steve’s grinning, obviously delighted, but the quirk of his eyebrows is soft and fond when he catches Bucky’s eye.

_“Really?”_ Dominic leaps forward and reaching for Steve’s bicep, trying to feel it under the parka Steve’s wearing. “Are _you_ a superman? Uncle Jamie says he’s not but I think he’s lying.”

Steve laughs. “That’s what he would like you to think, right?” he says. “Hold tight.”

When Dominic loops both arms around his forearm, Steve stands up from the crouch, lifting him easily along. Dominic cheers wildly, swinging his legs and accidentally kicking Steve in the thigh. He’s higher than Bucky’s managed to lift him, and clearly enjoying every second.

That’s what gets Isaac to forget his shyness, and he creeps closer. “Me too!”

Steve grins even wider, and he offers his other arm to Isaac, who darts to him and climbs up like a baby monkey; Bucky keeps an eye on them, just in case. On the porch, Bill and Irina are now both leaning against the railing, grinning like sharks - they know perfectly well how much the kids love using Bucky as a jungle gym, and how well Steve is suited for it, too.

The sun comes out just as Steve hoists both kids up, his face split in a dumb, gigantic smile, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His blond hair is peeking out from under his beanie, longer and messier than Bucky’s ever seen it; his warm parka straining a little against the muscles of his arms. Suddenly Bucky’s hit all over again by how _right_ it feels to see Steve here, how well he fits in the small, close-guarded life Bucky’s carefully built for himself; how goddamn _lucky_ they got to finally, finally have this.

He watches Steve with Isaac and Dominic, and his traitorous heart flips in his chest, because with their dark hair the kids could just as well be _Bucky’s,_ and the thought fills his throat, making it hard to breathe. During the brief, wonderful time Steve and he have spent together so far, Bucky’s never really stopped to think about what he was offering to Steve, or that maybe it was so much more than what it seemed at first glance.

He’d thought he was offering something simple, close to their life together before the war: a small apartment with clunking pipes, a yellow-eyed baby goshawk to replace the stray cats Bucky used to feed; a pieced-together man with only himself to give.

He hadn’t realized that what he also brought to Steve’s life was family - people around them who cared for Bucky like for a son or a brother, and extended the same love to Steve as well. It’s like there’s a whole clan of Barneses again, pulling Steve into their circle, except this time they’re Meadowses whose hearts seem to be even bigger and broader if possible.

Steve meets his eyes, the fondness in his gaze warming him, and Bucky’s moving before he registers it, sliding his hands around Steve’s torso and tucking himself under Steve’s chin despite the two kids hanging on the sides. Isaac accidentally kicks him on his ass, squealing a giggly “Sorry!”, and Bucky laughs against Steve’s coat.

“Hey,” Steve says happily, rubbing the top of Bucky’s head with his chin. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, closing his eyes. “I’m just happy.”  
  


* * *

  
March brings temporary goodbyes. The molting season is approaching - it’s a process that Bill isn’t equipped to handle with the facilities they have, and that’s why both Ruth and Mabel need to go to an aviary near Bangor for whole spring and summer. They’ll return in September with new plumage, ready for another autumn of flying; Ruth is bound to lose more of her baby fluff and come back closer to adulthood.

The morning Bill is supposed to drive down to Bangor, Steve helps him get Mabel into a box for the trip, while Bucky stands back, holding Ruth. Steve tries to focus on the task on hand but it’s hard, when his eyes keep straying back at Bucky, worry gnawing his heart. Bucky’s fingers are squeezing Ruth’s jesses, and his whole body is tense: he’s paler than normal, refused breakfast with mumbling something about not being hungry, no matter how much Steve tried to cajole him to eat at least something.

It’s been a strange couple of days. Bucky’s spent most of his time outside with Ruth, Steve trailing after them, and he’s been quiet and wan, alternating between shying away from touch and seeking it out. He hasn’t eaten much, veering into anxious, borderline obsessive activities like scrubbing fingerprints off of the fridge door seal or folding the laundry into tight rolls, and it shows in his appearance. He looks thin and tired, dark circles under his eyes, and he’s favoring his metal arm like he’s hurting, his expression pinched.

Ruth has picked up the mood and is fussing on Bucky’s fist, nipping at Bucky’s metal fingers when he tries to soothe her. Bucky’s jaw goes even tighter, and his voice cracks when he says, “It’s gonna be okay, baby. It’s gonna be just f-fine.”

Ruth bristles on the fist, her beak clicking angrily, and Bucky drops his uncertain, hovering hand, stuffing it into his pocket. Steve wishes the ordeal to be over already and Bill on his way, so that he could concentrate on helping Bucky out.

The two short weeks they’ve had together haven’t been enough for Steve to fully understand the bond between Bucky and Ruth - he’s sure there is more under the surface than just Bucky picking up a pet, but Bucky hasn’t told him the full story yet, and there is too much that Steve doesn’t know about manning a hawk to fill the gaps himself. The intensity and care Bucky and Ruth operate with goes somewhere deeper, bringing with it the ease of their hunts and their eerie connection, like a fine-tuned machine.

Maybe Bucky sees similarities between himself and Ruth; there must be a reason he chose a _goshawk_ of all things to be his companion. Steve’s been trying to imagine the state of mind Bucky was in when he arrived in Maine, back in September, but how can he ever relate to something like that, the aftershocks of a trauma so deep that it’s unbearable to even think about? From what he’s gathered, Bucky was definitely still in a shell-shocked state when he stepped through Matthew’s door, but Steve isn’t sure if Bucky will ever even want to share what it really was like for him, back then.

Sometimes Steve thinks that Bucky’s trying so hard to make Steve love this new, steadier version of himself that he wants to bury the journey to get there like he's ashamed; forgetting that Steve loves him even more for the courage and strength it took for Bucky to struggle out of HYDRA’s hold.

Bucky escapes before Bill puts Ruth in her box: he jerkily thrusts the bird at Bill and turns and leaves without a word. Steve sees him from the window, heading towards the fields with his head bowed down.

“Is he--” Steve starts, not sure what he’s asking.

“Okay?” Bill says. “I don’t think so, I saw how he looked, too. Help me hood Ruth and get her in, I can manage it from there.”

Ruth doesn’t take nicely to the box, but in the end they manage to wrestle her in, with only one sliced-open sleeve as the casualty. They both have to pant a little when the lid is on, listening to the angry hissing. Mabel’s cool as a cucumber in her box, clearly more used to it.

“Jesus,” Bill says then, wiping his forehead. “For a bird as easy and adaptable as she is, Ruth definitely puts up a fight.”

“Do you think she would’ve taken it better if Bucky had been here?” Steve asks, inspecting the torn sleeve of his fleece jacket. Luckily Ruth’s talons didn’t reach his arm, or he’d have some serious bleeding going on.

Bill shrugs. “Hard to say.” He straightens up and nods towards the door. “Go, I can get the girls in the car on my own. Try to get some food in him, he looks thin.”

Steve nods, patting Ruth’s box reassuringly. He’s gonna miss her and her judgy stare, the happy shuffling on Bucky’s fist. He veers upstairs to put on a coat and grab Bucky’s jacket for him, before heading to the hills.

Bucky’s sitting on the same hillside where Steve first saw him again, perched on a dry tuft of grass poking from the snow. His knees are drawn up, his face hidden against his arms, and Steve’s chest aches at the sight: Bucky looks so young like that, shivering in his hoodie. He doesn’t move when Steve approaches carefully and sits down next to him.

“Bucky?” Steve asks in a low voice, inching his hand closer, hovering over Bucky’s back like he’s trying to pet a spooked animal. But Bucky doesn’t flinch away: instead, he turns towards Steve just slightly, and Steve takes the cue, wrapping the jacket around his shoulders and gathering him up.

“I’m not gonna see her for months,” Bucky says, and his voice sounds wet and weak. He’s curled tightly into himself, pressing closer to Steve like he’s trying to make himself so small that he would fit into Steve’s shirt pocket. Steve hasn’t seen him like this since they were kids, when Bucky’s favorite alleycat was run over and he cried for days.

Bucky’s reaction is understandable: it’s the first time since autumn that he and Ruth are going to be apart. Bucky-with-Ruth had been confident, bold with his affections when he had a hawk on his fist but tentative and shy on his own. As Steve presses his cheek against Bucky’s hair, he feels suddenly endlessly grateful that Sam found Bucky now and not any later - just in time for Steve to be there for him through Ruth’s absence. Steve doesn’t know yet who Bucky-without-Ruth will be when that emotional support is untethered, but he’s keen to learn and love that part of him, too.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Steve says, dropping a kiss to the crown of Bucky’s head. “Summer’s short, she’ll be back before you notice.”

_And you’ll have me in the meantime,_ he doesn’t say, because he and Ruth aren’t mutually exclusive; she can never be a human companion just like Steve can never be a hawk, and it wouldn’t be fair for Bucky to compare Steve and Ruth’s importance in his life.

“Do you think she’ll recognize me anymore?” Bucky asks against Steve’s coat.

“I’m sure she will,” Steve reassures, rubbing a hand down Bucky’s back, cherishing the closeness and the vulnerability Bucky’s trusting him with. “Want to tell me about her?”

Bucky draws a shaky breath, huddles a little closer, and starts from the beginning.

**

After Ruth goes away, Bucky withdraws for a while: he stays out by himself, taking as many small jobs as he can, or helping Matthew in the café. Steve understands a little better now so he gives Bucky his space, trying to be patient, but there’s only so many times a guy can go through Bucky’s small library of books before getting bored out of his skull.

A week later, Steve wakes up to an empty bed. It’s almost nine a.m., and Bucky’s side of the bed has already cooled, like he’s been gone for a long time. When Steve crawls to the kitchen in search of coffee and breakfast, there’s a sketchbook and a set of good pencils on the table, a yellow post-it note stuck on top.

_Matthew is catering Franklin Todd’s grandkid’s baptism party, but his assistant got sick so he asked for my help. Might be late. Love you._

Steve puts his fingers on top of Bucky’s hastily scrawled love confession, warmth blooming in his chest. He can’t lie and say he hasn’t been hoping to hear it back, one day, but he’s content to take it in the ways Bucky is comfortable with: he knows the sentiment behind Bucky’s actions and can parse it from between the lines. Seeing it written down doesn’t mean Bucky will manage the words outright, and Steve can wait; God, he’ll wait until the end of the earth if that’s what it takes.

But Christ, _Christ._ It’s still a _love you,_ in Bucky’s rushed penmanship, tenderness written all over the casual tone of the message, and Steve can imagine Bucky’s face when he added it to the note. He must have been flushed, roses high on his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose, as exhilarated to get it out on paper as Steve is to receive it. Steve wants to tattoo it on his arm so he gets to look at it every single day, and then promptly laughs at his own love-dumbness.

Elevated, he goes on with the routine of grinding the beans and brewing coffee, making himself two sandwiches and some eggs. He eats his breakfast, drinks his coffee, brews another cup, eyes straying constantly back to the little note on top of the sketchbook, mouth tugging up helplessly.

Bucky’s bought him a sketchbook. Bucky’s _in love with him._ At this rate he’s never going to live through actually _hearing_ Bucky say it; his booming superhuman heart is going to promptly give up from sheer happiness.

What a way to go, though.

It’s a rainy day and Steve has nowhere to be, so he settles on the couch, turns on the tv with the volume off, and flips the first page open. He hasn’t drawn in ages, not since Bucky came back into his life with vengeance, but his fingers are itching to do it again now that the supplies are there.

The first thing he does is carefully paste Bucky’s post-it note inside the front cover, so that he can see it every time he opens the book.

He spends the rest of the day sketching, getting up only now and then for lunch or a midday run. At first he does some simple drawings of things he sees around him to warm up, but when his lines start to get surer, he starts sketching from memory. He fills page after page with the curve of Bucky’s smile; Ruth’s annoyed, puffed-up bristle; the well-organized utility room where the birds are kept. He draws Peggy, in all her youthful glory and her dignified old age.

As he draws, it feels like something finally starts to give inside him, like a beaver dam starting to leak. He’s never been good with his emotions or talking about them - and, really, talking about feelings wasn’t something people did much in the 1930s - but at least back then he had art to channel them into.

It was easier to keep drawing the sharp angle of Bucky’s jaw than tell him that Steve loved him; it was easier to sketch a house where he could’ve lived after the war than talk about the fragile future. With Bucky, with Peggy, it didn’t matter. He had a dream of _after_ , despite accepting that the war might consume them all, and the only place it could thrive was inside his notebook.

_After_ has always been like a half-forgotten dream, too far away to chase and too foggy to bother with. _Maybe_ there would be an after for him, _maybe_ it would be a happy one; it was a cold comfort in the middle of the war where brothers in arms were falling next to him daily, but he held onto it, silently wishing for the day the impossible would finally inch closer.

When he woke up alone in this odd new century, it hadn’t mattered anymore. There was nothing to wish for anymore; no war to come home from, nobody to make a home with. He had hidden the part of him that never got out of the battlefield, but when Bucky turned up again, so did the desperate wish for _after,_ and now--

Now, he thinks, flipping back to the front cover to see the post-it note again, the fog has finally started to dissolve.

Bucky stumbles through the door hours later, when it’s already starting to get dark. He looks bone-deep tired, and there’s flour on his clothes and hair, transferring onto Steve’s as Bucky collapses on the couch and presses himself against Steve’s flank. Bucky’s so impossibly _sweet_ like this, seeking contact, all his hard angles softened with exhaustion. Steve pushes his fingers into Bucky’s hair, trying to work open the bun, and Bucky sighs, sagging against him. He smells like cherry pie and stale sweat.

“Long day?” Steve asks as the hair tie is loosened and Bucky’s hair falls down onto his shoulder.

Bucky makes a low noise of relief and agreement. “Never again,” he mumbles. “Franklin Todd better not get any more grandchildren.”

Steve hides his smile, because Bucky’s words are half-hearted, at best: Bucky loves so many people in town, especially Matthew, and likely would agree to help in a blink of an eye if Franklin Todd had another baptism to host and Matthew happened to ask. Steve runs his fingers through the hair at the back of Bucky’s head, fingers pressing gently against his scalp, making Bucky let out a pitiful sound and slump further into Steve’s armpit.

“You look exhausted,” Steve says softly. “Want me to run you a bath?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, turning his head and resting it against Steve’s collarbone. “But not yet. Let me stay here for a minute.”

“As long as you need,” Steve says, kisses the top of Bucky’s head, and squeezes him close.

Steve sits on the toilet lid while Bucky’s in the bath, reading a book with his left hand and holding Bucky’s hand with his right. Bucky’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the side of the tub, knees drawn up. His face, hair, and knobbly knees are the only parts of him visible among the bubbles, and Steve keeps stealing glances at him. Bucky’s eyelashes are long and dark against his cheeks, and they make him seem younger.

If it weren’t for the length of Bucky’s hair and the new lines on his face, and how badly Steve fits in the tiny bathroom, it could be just like before the war, whenever they could carry enough warm water up for an actual bath. Bucky’s got the look of someone who’s tired from hard work and pleased with the result.

“Can you wash my hair?” Bucky asks, opening his eyes and glancing up, tightening his grip around Steve’s hand a little. Under the wan bathroom light his grey eyes look almost translucent.

“Of course,” Steve says, puts his book away and reaches for the shampoo. He presses a kiss on Bucky’s knuckles before letting go, and Bucky smiles at him, dunking his head in the tub.

Steve washed Bucky’s hair just once, before, in the camp after the rescue from Kreischberg, when Bucky had been skittish and withdrawn, so exhausted that he was swaying on his feet. He’d been told to strip by the nurses who catalogued his wounds, but he’d refused to be touched, so Steve had been the one to help him into a tub and scrub the dirt and blood and sweat off him. Bucky had been _so thin,_ his ribs and spine clearly visible, his shoulders sharper than Steve had ever seen. When Steve had washed him, Bucky had sat hunched into himself and startled at every touch, even though Steve had been careful to warn before laying a hand on him.

It had been the last time Steve had touched Bucky’s bare skin.

“Steve?” Bucky asks softly, and Steve blinks, realizing that he’s half-standing next to the tub, holding the shampoo.

“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat, but his voice is a little weak. He pours shampoo onto his palm and starts working it into Bucky’s hair, dark and wet and so stupidly, wonderfully long. Bucky melts into the touch sweetly, tipping his head forward when Steve rubs his scalp, fingers digging carefully into the stiff muscles at the base of Bucky’s skull.

The seam of Bucky’s metal arm looks red and irritated, and Steve frowns, leaning closer to have a better look. The skin is hot to touch, and it makes Bucky flinch, drawing into himself a little.

“You’re hurt,” Steve says, and Bucky lifts his unharmed shoulder, not looking up.

“A lot of kneading,” he murmurs. “It hurts sometimes.”

“We need to get salve for it.” Steve touches the seam one more time, trying to gauge the severity of the inflammation. “I’ll go buy some tomorrow.”

“Yeah. How was your day?” Bucky’s mumbling into his knees, slurring with exhaustion, and Steve’s whole body goes warm with affection. Bucky’s practically asleep on his ass and yet trying to make conversation because he’s been out for the whole day.

“It was good,” he says, reaching for the detachable shower head and tapping Bucky’s jaw with his other hand. “Lean back.”

Bucky tilts his head back and lets Steve rinse the lather from his hair. “D’you like the pencils?”

“Yeah,” Steve says fondly, working the conditioner in. “I loved them. I’ll show you tomorrow what I drew.”

“You never showed ‘em to me in Europe,” Bucky says. It’s true: Steve used to let Bucky leaf through his sketchbooks back home, because they were already sleeping together and there were no secrets between them, but he’d stopped after he found Bucky again in Austria.

“Because most of them were of you,” Steve says, rinsing the conditioner out. “You’d made it clear you didn’t want me anymore, I couldn’t just-- well, give you a damn book full of your face.”

“I did want you,” Bucky murmurs, eyes closed, and Steve squeezes water out of his hair and twists it into a knot, securing it with a clip to keep it out of the bath water. “I just didn’t think I deserved you anymore.”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, leaning to rest his head against Bucky’s temple. “I know that now.” He stays there for a while, breathing in Bucky’s squeaky clean smell, and then he forces himself to pull away, dropping a kiss on Bucky’s brow. “Let’s get you to bed.”

It’s not until Bucky’s struggling to pull a long-sleeved shirt on that Steve realizes he’s cradling his prosthetic arm close to his body, trying to limit its movements. He’s just about to reach out to help when Bucky finally manages to slip the shirt on, expression twisting with pain, and sits heavily down on the bed.

“Buck?”

Bucky looks up, blinking rapidly. His breathing is a little shallow, and he looks paler than he did in the bath. “It’s just-- My back hurts. The arm really fucks it up sometimes.”

Looking at the way Bucky’s twisted and hunched to stave off the ache, it’s no surprise. Steve’s noticed his lopsided posture, of course he has, with how much he keeps watching Bucky to commit him to memory, but he’s never stopped to think about the implications or the effect it might have on Bucky’s body. Steve doesn’t know exactly what Bucky’s arm is made of - and he doubts Bucky knows either - but it’s definitely heavier than the alloy of Tony’s armor or Sam’s wings.

Steve sits next to him, his hand hovering over Bucky’s lower back. “Anything I can do?”

Bucky leans into the touch, tense and careful, but something soft lingering around his edges from Steve taking care of him. “Could you - maybe try giving me a massage? It might help.”

“Of course.” Steve kisses his temple, damp hair clinging to his lips. “Get comfortable, I’ll see what I can do.”

Bucky’s back is a mess of tension and knotted muscles, and it takes a long time to get them to loosen up, but eventually Bucky falls asleep like that, sprawled on his stomach with his face mushed in the pillow, Steve still coaxing the knots out.

Steve sits on the side of the bed for a long time, watching him. He strokes his hand absently down Bucky’s back, thinking about what a show of trust it must have been for Bucky to ask for the massage: for all their closeness and fumbling intimacy, Bucky’s still hesitant when it comes to what HYDRA did to his body. Steve doesn’t fault him for it, but maybe this was the first step to conquering that obstacle; Steve’s just glad to have more ways to care for Bucky.

Bucky sighs in his sleep, and Steve leans down to kiss his shoulder and turns off the light. They’ll have time to figure it out, now.

**

Life settles onto its track.

Bucky does his odd jobs around town. Steve sometimes tags along, but most of the time they just wander in the fields or hunker down at home, pop into town to see Matthew. It’s a quiet life, just like Bucky warned him, and Steve loves it, he does, but sometimes--

Sometimes it’s hard. He’s fought for his living for a long time, and the lack of it makes him antsy and nervous, thrumming with pent-up energy.

“Do you miss it?” Bucky asks quietly one night, when Steve’s having trouble sleeping. “The shield?”

Steve’s been lying on their narrow bed for almost an hour, listening to Bucky breathe in the dark. He hadn’t realized Bucky was awake, his body a solid weight against Steve’s back.

“I don’t know,” Steve says after a beat. “I don’t miss the fighting, but--”

“You need an outlet,” Bucky says drowsily, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder. He’s sleep-warm, and his arm is heavy on Steve’s side.

Bucky sleeps so much nowadays, woken up by nightmares only a couple of times a month, and it shouldn’t break Steve’s heart, it _shouldn’t._ But back in 1944 Bucky’s sleep was fitful, patchy, and Steve can’t imagine how difficult the past year has been to him, so seeing him at peace means so much to Steve that it’s almost painful.

Bucky has his bad days, still - Steve would be more worried if he didn’t - when he is prone to either stick as close to Steve as humanly possible, or disappear for hours with just a nearly-illegible _Out_ scrawled on a post-it. His craving for Ruth gets sharp and visceral, sometimes, resulting in Steve finding him downstairs in the empty mews, oiling the unused jesses over and over again like it would make time move faster. It’s frustrating because there really isn’t anything Steve can do to make it easier: the only way to get past it is letting Bucky’s overwhelming sorrow run its course and waiting for him to bounce back for another day.

Silently Steve’s counting days for the inevitable fight, when his own restlessness will clash with Bucky’s bad day and turn into yelling. He hopes he will figure out a way to let energy out before that; the last thing he wants is to fight with Bucky about something that isn’t his fault.

“I guess, yeah,” Steve says, and Bucky worms somehow even closer, plastering them together. He’s clearly struggling to stay awake but is trying anyway, likely because he knows Steve wants to talk, and-- Christ, Steve loves him _to the moon._

“You should get another hobby,” Bucky murmurs. “A physical one.”

“Like farming?” Steve asks, aiming for a joking tone, but it falls flat. He’s genuinely considering it as a possibility.

“Maybe,” Bucky says, trying to stifle a yawn. “You’d probably look great in denim overalls.”

Steve snorts and manages to turn around so that he can get his arms around Bucky and squeeze: the shape of Bucky’s body is a marvel, familiar territory he’s still getting to know.

Bucky’s hair is a little damp from the shower, tied up in a slightly uneven Dutch braid. Steve’s gonna have to practise harder to make his braids tidier, more even. He’s also gonna have to practise not choking up whenever Bucky turns his back to him, sits down and says, _Can you do my hair._

Bucky yawns openly, his breathing slowing down as he starts losing the grip on awareness. “This bed is too small,” he mumbles against Steve’s shoulder.

As if to demonstrate that, he turns around to become the little spoon, and nearly pushes Steve out of the bed in the process. Steve has to scramble to defy gravity, and he’s huffing with laughter as he settles again, moulding himself to Bucky’s back.

“You did that on purpose,” he murmurs, nosing Bucky’s ear, and gets just a sleep-sniffle as a response.

Sleep comes easy after that.

**

Barely three days later, Bill pulls Steve aside while he’s turning the soil in Irina’s vegetable garden, urging it to dry faster. Bill’s expression is hard to read, scrutinizing on a level that makes Steve squirm a little.

“Listen, son,” Bill says, lowering his voice even though Bucky is inside, scrubbing the bathroom. “You’re sticking around, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning on the shovel and wiping sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his fleece jacket. The days are getting warm, and snow has already melted in most places, making way for spring. Irina’s itching to plant, but the soil and the weather aren’t fully ready for it yet, so the windowsills of the house are lined with seedlings just waiting for the right time.

“Not gonna keep running around the world after aliens?” Bill presses.

Steve shakes his head, wondering if this is gonna be some awkward shovel talk about Bucky. “The only thing I want in life is up there,” he says, gesturing towards the garage upstairs. “I gave up the shield, and I’m gonna stay as long as Bucky wants me around.”

Bill narrows his eyes in consideration, then his mouth turns into a smile. Sometimes Steve thinks that Bill is the kind of man he would like to become with age - steady, kind, picking his side and planting himself there, always in support of those who need it.

“Good,” Bill says at normal volume. “Do you see that house?” He points towards a small building, a little way up the road.

Steve’s run past it several times. It’s a one-story bungalow near where the path branches off towards the hills: a little neglected, standing in the middle of trees and overgrown weeds, looking like nobody’s lived there in decades.

“My parents built it in the 50s when I was a kid,” Bill says when Steve nods. “Irina and I lived there for a while, but built this house when Alicia was two, because Irina got pregnant with Mariyam. I’ve tried to take care of the house after that, just to make sure it’s not rotting, and we had tenants there for a while, but it’s been empty for over ten years now. Shame, because it used to be lovely.”

Steve nods again. The little house _is_ pretty charming - or it would be, if it was painted, the roof fixed and the yard cleared up. For a few seconds Steve makes the mistake of picturing Bucky there on a summer morning, half-asleep and leaning against the doorframe with his hair twisted up and a coffee cup in his hands, waiting for Steve to get back from his run.

It’s a very, very good image, even if it’s just a fantasy.

“Do you want it?” Bill asks bluntly, jolting Steve from his daydream. “It needs a full renovation from top to bottom, but it’s a good house if you don’t need much extra space.”

“Not like we have much space currently, either,” Steve says absently, and then the full implication in the words hit home, the realization of what Bill really is offering him.

A house to call their own; that post-war forever home Steve used to dream about inside his sketchbook; his final, long-awaited _after._

Holy shit. _Holy shit._

“Oh,” Steve says, stunned, and the images of Bucky and late summer mornings slam back with vengeance, grabbing a firmer hold of him. “Fuck, uh, sorry, I-- gotta ask Bucky. But that-- that would be amazing, Bill, I don’t even know what to say.”

Bill grins, obviously pleased with both himself and Steve’s reaction. He clasps Steve’s shoulder, squeezing tight and warm, like Steve’s a son-in-law he’s given his ultimate blessing to. “No need, kid. Come over with Jamie when you’ve talked to him, we can go look at it today so you will get the whole terror of it.”

Bucky’s eyes light up with excitement and wonder when Steve goes to fetch him after the vegetable garden has been turned. The bathroom floor is shining from the vigorous scrub Bucky’s given it, and there’s a healthy flush on Bucky’s cheekbones from the warmth of the house and the exercise. He’s favoring his arm again - not as badly as after Franklin Todd’s party, but noticeably. The arm doesn’t like repetitive movements, that much has become clear, but Bucky wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t insist on doing the chores anyway.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky says. “I love that house. Let me get changed and we can go.” He’s wearing Steve’s t-shirt, his sweatpants rolled up to his knobbly knees to avoid getting them wet, and Steve wants to scoop him up and never let go.

He puts his hand tentatively on Bucky’s upper back, instead, pushing gently with his fingertips, and asks, “You okay?”

Bucky makes a low noise, his smile slipping just a little. “Just sore,” he says before his smile returns back to its brightness. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go see the house.”

Steve drops it. Maybe he can do something for Bucky later to help him unwind.

Bucky is practically vibrating with excitement as they walk up the road after Bill, and it would make Steve laugh if his throat wasn’t feeling suspiciously tight the closer they get to the little house. They have to hack away the weeds to make it to the porch without getting dry thistle all over their clothes, and when Bill opens the door, the smell of stale air and dust rolls out, making Bucky wrinkle his nose. Steve tries to not find it so adorable.

Bill wasn’t kidding about the need for renovation: the house seems dark and sad with its yellowing walls and peeling paint, the stained carpets curled up in the corners, the smell of dust and mildew hanging in the air. The plumbing and wiring needs to be updated and the roof replaced, and the bathroom makes Bucky recoil a little in horror.

But the teak veneer of the built-in cabinets in the foyer and the master bedroom is in good condition, the windows are big and let in a lot of light after the dusty curtains are pulled to the side, and the floor plan is good. Steve walks around the house, knocking on walls, trying to imagine how it would look with new paint and hardwood flooring, with all of Bucky’s things from the flat brought in; with furniture that is theirs.

It could become a home. There is definitely room for a bigger bed.

He finds Bucky and Bill in the kitchen, gently testing the old cabinets to see if the frames can be saved. When Steve goes to them and puts his hand on Bucky’s lower back, Bucky leans into the touch and says, “I like it.”

“Me too,” Steve agrees, turning his head and pressing a kiss on Bucky’s temple. It sounds terribly lame comparing to the whole overwhelming mess of emotions Steve tries to convey with it, but his voice catches a little in his throat, and Bucky’s eyes are shining in a way that means he gets it, probably feels exactly the same.

“Let’s do this,” Bucky says, and Bill grins, tossing him the keys. Bucky catches them easily, and both he and Steve stare down at them: the literal start of a new life together.

When Bill wanders out to check on the garage, Bucky turns to Steve, takes him by the collar, and leans up for a kiss. It’s longer, less tentative than the ones they’ve been trading until now, and Bucky’s eyes are bright when they finally break apart, a little breathless.

He’s smiling, the curve of his red mouth irresistible, and Steve can’t help but lean back in for another kiss, his hands migrating to Bucky’s hips. Bucky rocks closer, slides his right hand into Steve’s hair and opens his mouth, and suddenly every nerve ending in Steve’s body lights up, stunned and delighted.

It’s the kind of kiss he remembers from before the war, when Bucky wasn’t yet scraped raw and pulling away - but now he also has a new kind of appreciation for the long road they took to reach this point, and it fills Steve with giddiness and marvel. This is their homecoming; their American dream seventy damn years in the making.

When Bucky pulls back and rests his forehead against Steve’s, they’re both breathing heavily, grinning like a pair of loons.

“We’re getting a house,” Bucky says in a low, astonished murmur.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, kissing the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and thinks, _Now, now, now._

**

They fall into bed together that night, giddy with excitement and laughter, and Bucky’s pliant and kissable against Steve, miles of long limbs and happiness. He’s warm when Steve sneaks a hand under his shirt, and makes the most wonderful little sound as Steve’s thumb follows the lines of his abs, rucking the shirt up.

Steve’s careful to not go too far up; he’s seen Bucky shirtless dozens of times when changing or in the bath, but there’s a line of intimacy they haven’t yet crossed, and he doesn’t want to push Bucky into anything he isn’t ready for.

But then Bucky maneuvers them easily so that he’s sitting on Steve’s lap and grabs the hem of his shirt, and Steve’s brain shorts out. Bucky pulls the t-shirt over his head, revealing the pale expanse of his torso, the lean muscles shifting under his skin. The light is out, but the thin sickle of newborn moon is shining outside, making the darkness less heavy.

Bucky’s hair is loose and flipped over his shoulder, and it tickles the side of Steve’s face when Bucky leans over him, cupping Steve’s face with both hands. He looks like a wild thing, like something that has allowed itself to be tamed by Steve, and Steve’s mesmerized, his hands twitching helplessly on Bucky’s thighs.

“I love you,” Bucky says softly, curved over Steve like a shield. “I love you, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it out loud.”

“No,” Steve manages, his heart in his throat. He struggles to prop himself up onto his elbows, pushing up and closer to Bucky. “It’s all right. I’ve known it.”

Bucky smiles, tilting Steve’s face up with his hands to kiss him. He’s minty fresh from brushing his teeth and his lips are soft, and Steve never wants to stop kissing him. Steve doesn’t know if he’s been this happy in his whole life, the almost unbearable lightness swallowing him whole.

“I want to sleep with you,” Bucky says, their foreheads pressed together, “if-- if you want that too.”

Steve surges up to kiss him again, trying to be mindful with his beard and the burn it can cause. “Yes,” he says, “yes, of course, Bucky, Jesus,” and Bucky laughs against his mouth.

Bucky’s grinning when he pulls back, his hands sliding down Steve’s chest to the hem of his shirt. Steve hastens to sit up, letting Bucky ruck his t-shirt up and over his head, tossing the garment to the floor. As soon as it’s gone, Steve reaches for Bucky again, bringing him in for more kisses, running his fingertips hesitantly up Bucky’s torso, over his metal shoulder.

Bucky shivers at the touch, sighing, his back curving and head tipping back as Steve kisses him on the jaw and down his neck to the dip between his collar bones. Bucky threads his hand into Steve’s hair at the back of his neck, and he presses helplessly into Steve’s hands, firm around his ribcage.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s throat, making Bucky laugh breathily.

Steve kisses the scarring around his shoulder and the faded marks from long-gone decades on his chest. Bucky’s hand tightens a little in his hair, his warm metal hand running across Steve’s shoulders as Steve’s lips move lower. He mouths at Bucky’s nipple, circling the other one with his thumb, and Bucky inhales shakily. Some things never change - Bucky’s always had sensitive nipples, and Steve used to be able to make him come just from playing with them.

God, if that naive little pre-war Steve could see them now: how far they went from that shabby room in Brooklyn Heights, all the tragedy that came for them. Maybe it would make him appreciate what he had more, or fight harder through things to come, knowing there would be a good ending for them both. Maybe he wouldn’t learn a thing and still be a foolish kid, getting his dick wet on the regular and thinking it would last forever.

Steve flicks his tongue against the tight little nub of Bucky’s nipple before sucking it between his lips, getting it nice and wet so that when he moves to the other one, his thumb slides easily over it in a lazy, torturous rub. Bucky’s making soft, breathy sounds at the back of his throat, hips rocking just slightly. Steve loves playing with his body like this; the sweet way Bucky’s always given himself up when there’s a hand or a mouth on his tits.

Soon enough Bucky’s properly squirming on his lap, and when Steve sneaks a hand between them he finds that Bucky’s hard as nails in his pajama pants, worked up and starting to get that air of desperation Steve likes so much. He presses against the bulge, kneading a little, and Bucky draws a sharp breath, a low sound rising from his chest.

Steve’s half-hard just from having Bucky on his lap, but suddenly Bucky’s pulling away, sliding down Steve’s body and-- _Jesus fuck,_ putting his mouth on Steve’s cock over the underwear, making it jump.

“Lie down,” Bucky says and mouths at the line of his dick, and Steve’s back hits the mattress like lightning, making Bucky chuckle. Steve squirms at the vibrations, half from arousal, half ticklish. He wasn’t expecting Bucky to turn the tables on him like this, but it delights him all the same: serves him right for assuming that Bucky wouldn’t remember how to play this game, too.

“Fuck, Steve, look at you,” Bucky murmurs, a sly smile on his lips, his hands sliding up Steve’s torso, petting his chest hair and palming his pecs briefly before returning to his hips. “Finally the rest of you matches the size of your dick.” He presses a kiss on Steve’s abdomen, following the line of the iliac furrow with his tongue, and touches his lips against Steve’s cock again.

It hits Steve then, that this is the first time Bucky’s really touched him after he got the serum, and that both of them are just as dumbstruck by each other: Bucky by health and strength, Steve by survival and happiness. Overwhelming gratitude sweeps over him, just from feeling Bucky’s hands framing his waist. It’s like their first time together all over again, except so much better, because they’re getting to touch each other like this again after all the hardship and sorrow.

Bucky doesn’t make a move to pull Steve’s underwear down, content to coax his cock to swell with his clever tongue and wet mouth, sucking the head through the cotton. Steve swears, scrabbling for purchase, and Bucky pulls his hand into his hair, encouraging Steve to hold it. It’s silky between Steve’s fingers, thick and shiny, and he fists it experimentally, making Bucky breathe out in surprise and arousal.

Steve tightens his hold a little, and Bucky makes a sound that goes straight to Steve’s dick as Bucky sinks down again, sucking Steve to full hardness, damp fabric moulding around every curve. It’s a new sensation and unbearably erotic, making Steve arch off the bed. He wants to squirm, but holds on to the mattress with his free hand, biting his lip, until Bucky does something incredible with his tongue, and he can’t take it anymore.

“Come here,” Steve says breathlessly, pushing up onto his elbows and sitting up against the headboard. If Bucky actually gets his underwear off and goes to town, this is going to be over sooner than he wishes.

Bucky obeys, crawling up Steve’s body to meet his mouth halfway. Kissing him is electric, the slide of his lips and the crook of his tongue setting off sparks under Steve’s skin, and Steve’s never wanted anything as badly as he wants Bucky, bright and alive and in his arms, this time to stay.

“How do you want me?” Steve asks, thrusting slowly up against the swell of Bucky’s ass.

“Like-- _oh.”_ Bucky’s mouth opens in a sigh, and he curves his back to meet the roll of Steve’s hips. “Like we used to do.”

Steve knows immediately what he means: the muggy summer nights spent crammed together on Steve’s narrow bed, Bucky’s tightly crossed thighs and arched back, sheen of sweat on his body. “Yeah,” he breathes out, leans in to press a kiss on the underside of Bucky’s jaw. “Do you have anything to slick you up?”

“In the bathroom,” Bucky manages. “Let me--”

Steve lets go, and Bucky wobbles off the bed and onto his feet. He comes back a few seconds later with a jar of vaseline, tossing it to Steve, but doesn’t come closer. He hovers at the foot of the bed, then swallows and lifts his chin.

“Turn the light on,” Bucky says softly, hooking his thumbs in his waistband. “Please.”

Steve feels like he’s choking on his own heart, so high up in his throat, as he leans to click the bedside lamp on. He’s grateful for the warm glow of the lamp: he wants to see Bucky, but, more importantly, Bucky wants to be _seen,_ doesn’t want their second first time together to be in the dark.

Bucky waits until the room is lit before pushing off his pajama pants and straightening up, stepping out of the pooling fabric. Steve doesn’t know where to look first, his gaze sliding greedily up Bucky’s calves and powerful thighs to his cock and trimmed pubic hair; up his slender torso to the hair spilling down over his shoulder. He’s breathtaking, agile and beautiful, and all Steve’s.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve manages, meeting Bucky’s eye, and something in Bucky’s expression softens, opening up, and he comes back to bed, leaning in for a kiss. Steve worms out of his underwear and fishes around for the vaseline, screwing it open.

Bucky’s warm and smooth, pale after the long winter and gilded by the light, and he yields into touch perfectly, spreading his legs. He’s trembling by the time Steve finishes slicking the insides of his thighs, eyes half-lidded.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, half-sitting back against the pillows and the headboard, crooking a finger at him.

Bucky turns around, and just the sight of his bare back, narrowing down to his trim waist and the flare of his ass is enough to make Steve swallow. He swipes some loose locks back over Bucky’s shoulder, just to feel Bucky’s skin under his fingertips.

He helps Bucky settle his back against Steve’s chest, his ass right up on Steve’s groin; the pressure a promise in itself, the sweetest kind of torture. Bucky’s pressed together thighs are slick with vaseline, muscles tensed to create the perfect, tight channel for Steve to slide his cock into, rubbing against Bucky’s perineum. Steve plants his feet on the bed, thighs bracketing Bucky’s and rolls his hips experimentally, gasping at the tightness. Bucky lets out a shuddering sigh, tips his head back against Steve’s shoulder.

They used to do this on their sides, or Bucky lying under him, and the grip of his thighs is achingly familiar. But now it’s so much _better:_ Bucky curved against his chest, his whole gorgeous body up on display and to caress, and Steve finally has the power and muscle control to fuck slowly up into the warm space between Bucky’s legs, able to watch the tip of his cock pushing out, flushed and leaking.

It feels so good, and Steve kisses Bucky’s jaw, draping one arm over Bucky’s pelvis to help him stay in place, running his other hand up to find a nipple. Bucky gasps at the touch, hand braced against the bed and the other looped behind Steve’s neck, chest pushing up. He’s wonderfully eager and pliant, trying to move his hips just slightly, and Steve mouths another kiss on his neck, wholly wrapped around Bucky.

He gets hair in his mouth, and still fucking _loves_ it.

 

 

It’s quiet, intimate; there’s not much room to move so it’s more of a slow grind than actual fucking, and Steve wouldn’t change it for anything. He revels in the slick grip of Bucky’s thighs, the silence in the bedroom broken only by the wet slide of his cock and the small, breathy sounds Bucky makes when Steve teases his nipple with his fingertips.

“I can’t wait for it, baby,” Steve says against Bucky’s ear, and Bucky squeezes his thighs just a little more, making Steve’s breath hitch as his orgasm starts slowly building. “A real house, with you. We’re gonna have a fucking _life_ together.”

He slides his hand down to palm Bucky’s dick, spreading the pre-cum with his thumb, and Bucky sighs shakily, tries to push up against the pressure. Steve squeezes a little, teases the crown and revels in the perfect way Bucky responds to the touch, squirming with pleasure, a breathy laugh on his lips.

“Kiss me,” Bucky says, turning his head, and Steve’s more than happy to comply. It’s a little messy and uncoordinated because of the funky angle, but then Bucky rubs his thighs together and crooks his tongue in Steve’s mouth, and suddenly Steve’s teetering at the edge of an orgasm, just like that.

“Christ, Bucky, I’m--” he says as he pulls back from Bucky’s mouth, his hips stuttering.

Bucky nods, his eyes bright and mouth raw from kissing, says breathlessly, “Yeah, give it to me,” and then Steve’s fucking up into the wet heat between Bucky’s legs; once, twice, thrice, making a guttural sound as he comes.

Bucky makes a low, approving noise and circles his hips slowly, his thighs massaging Steve’s cock through the orgasm, and Steve’s pawing at Bucky helplessly, panting and happy, high on the first orgasm he’s had with Bucky since 1943.

“I wish I could live here,” Steve slurs, fuck-drunk and stupid, because his cock doesn’t show any signs of softening, and he’s already thinking about flipping Bucky over to all fours and sliding back in; of all the places he could take his hands to in that position.

Bucky laughs, surprised, but it turns into a moan when Steve brushes a thumb over his nipple. “What, between my legs?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, grinning with the post-orgasm high, and tugs lightly at Bucky’s perky nipple, “with your tits up like this.”

Bucky sputters out a mixture of a laugh and a needy sound. “You animal,” he says as he pushes his chest more into Steve’s hands. “Is this how you talk to all the girls?”

They used to laugh and horse around a lot while having sex, before, as much as Steve’s health allowed, and sliding easily back to that dynamic after the heavy intimacy just moments before hits Steve like a punch to the stomach. “Nah,” he says to cover the way his heart cartwheels in his chest. “Just the one that for some reason likes my dumb face.”

It makes Bucky laugh again, the grip of his thighs loosening a little, and having him jostling with mirth in Steve’s lap in all his naked glory is better than anything Steve could’ve ever dreamed up.

“Open your legs,” Steve murmurs, and when Bucky does, he moves Bucky’s hair out of the way, swipes his hands over Bucky’s thighs to collect some of the grease, and brings his slippery fingers up, palming Bucky’s pecs. He kneads slowly, Bucky arching up against him, breathing heavily.

“The things I want to do to you, sweetheart,” Steve tells him, shifting his grip so that the calluses on his palms scrape against Bucky’s hardened nipples, drawing the most incredible noises from Bucky’s throat. Bucky’s hips start twitching, like he’s seeking friction on his dick, and his breathing is fast, his chest heaving against Steve’s hands.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” Steve says, low, running his fingertips down Bucky’s flanks, following the dip of Bucky’s iliac furrow with his thumbs and diverting his touch just before he reaches Bucky’s dick. “All the ways I want to take you apart with my hands and my mouth before I give you my cock.”

Bucky cants his hips up to chase the touch, spreading his legs, and Steve uses it to his advantage, sliding his hand down between Bucky’s legs and rubbing his sensitive inner thigh. “I could flip you around right now,” he says against Bucky’s ear. “Put you on your hands and knees and eat you out until you're all sloppy and sweet and ready for me."

Bucky's breath hitches, and Steve presses a fleeting finger against his hole, like a promise, just enough pressure to dip in before withdrawing, coming back up to Bucky's chest. "Or I could put you on my lap, have you hold your arms behind your back so your tits are all pushed out for me, and see if I can make you come with just my tongue."

Steve circles Bucky's nipples with slick fingers and rolls his hips a little, nudging his erection against Bucky’s heavy balls, making Bucky choke out a moan, low in his throat. Bucky's panting now, his back arching, and Steve gives him another tug. It's intoxicating to have Bucky like this, all spread out for Steve's exploring touch, giving himself up so sweetly.

"Yes," Bucky pleads, "fuck, please Steve, anything," but Steve's not done yet. He pulls his hands away again, stroking every inch of Bucky's warm skin with his palms, hips rocking lazily.

He'll never get used to this, Steve thinks as he kisses up Bucky's neck: the rush of arousal and affection, the quiet, all-encompassing intimacy that they've found. But maybe that makes it so incredible - they've finally got all the time in the world to explore and relearn, to find out all the ways that make them tick now.

"I want everything with you," Steve says, rubbing and rubbing, teasing Bucky closer to his orgasm. "We're just getting started, sweetheart."

“Steve,” Bucky chokes out helplessly, gulping for air as Steve flicks his fingers against the tight, slicked-up peaks, thumbing them, and suddenly Bucky’s gasping as his body convulses, his cock shooting over his stomach.

Steve stares at him shamelessly, his own dick twitching: the perfect arch of Bucky’s body, hair cascading over his shoulder, nipples blushed and puffy and begging to get a mouth on them; the mess they made on Bucky’s thighs and stomach, Steve’s drooling cock straining between Bucky’s legs.

He’s a fucking _sight,_ and Steve kisses his jaw, stroking both hands down Bucky’s sides, following the full-body blush. After a moment, Bucky sags back against Steve and tips his head onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes closed. “God,” he rasps out.

Steve presses his face against Bucky’s temple, breathing in the sex-scent of him, and the smell of outdoors always lingering in his hair. “I love you,” he says, because that’s him: Steve Rogers, the certified sap. “You’re incredible.”

“Flatterer,” Bucky says, squirming a little until Steve wraps his arms around him in an embrace. He settles down against Steve to catch his breath, turning his head to meet Steve’s eye.

“Always,” Steve says, winks cornily, and kisses him, swiping his tongue over Bucky’s spit-slick lower lip. They trade lazy, satisfied kisses until Bucky’s breathing has evened out, and then Bucky reaches down between his legs, circles the head of Steve’s still-hard cock between his thumb and forefinger.

Steve bucks up to the touch, and Bucky laughs breathlessly, stroking a little more insistently with his thumb. “Did you say something about putting me on all fours?” he asks, and Steve grins, grips him harder, and does as he promised.  
  


* * *

  
Turns out that Lena Schwartz - whom Bucky once helped move - is an interior designer, and Charles, her new fiancé, works as a carpenter and a builder. They come over to take a look at the house, grimacing at the aged carpets, but Charles confirms that there doesn’t seem to be any structural problems with the house, and that the renovation can be finished before summer is over.

Lena designs them a new, improved kitchen and completely renewed bathroom, implements the color scheme Steve suggests, and kicks the ugly utility room countertop off by herself on the first demolition day.  
  


* * *

  
They’re both in the kitchen, clearing the table after lunch, when Steve’s phone starts chiming in the pocket of his toolbelt, hanging near the door.

Bucky looks up when Steve’s head whips towards it, surprise written all over his face, and for a moment they both stare at the toolbelt, listening to the chime get louder and louder. Bucky’s never heard that alarm before, and when Steve snaps out of the trance, throws the dish towel down and strides to pull out his phone, he realizes why.

A dot and a dash, the first letter of the Morse alphabet. It’s the Avengers alert.

“Fuck,” Steve says to himself as he pulls the message up and skims through fast. His face is intensely focused as he reads, and then he’s quickly dialing, putting the phone to his ear and turning towards the bedroom. Bucky stands mutely in front of the sink, his hands still in the murky dishwater, and watches him go.

“Tony,” Steve says as he disappears into the bedroom, “I need transport. Do you have the coordinates?” A short silence. “I should’ve guessed. No, you can’t just land anywhere, you’ll ruin the harvest. There’s an unused airfield near me, I can get there pretty fast.” Another pause. “Yeah, I got it, thanks. Haven’t tried it on yet, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Yeah. I’ll be there, see you soon.”

Bucky finishes scrubbing the last plate and rinses it, yanks the plug out to drain the sink. He wipes the counter and the kitchen table, takes the dish towel Steve left lying around and folds it neatly over the oven handle. Both of his hands are trembling, just slightly.

How the hell does Steve know about the small, unused airfield, seven miles out of town? Bill took Bucky there once, back in the fall when they were getting Ruth used to short car rides, but Bucky’s never even mentioned it to Steve as far as he can remember. Has Steve been preparing for this, looking up places where a quinjet might land without disturbing the farmers’ livinghood? And if he has, why didn’t he say anything?

Bucky busies himself with the fridge, rearranging the fresh produce and the pre-made meals he’s cooked for Steve to take to the building site. There’s something heavy and terrified sitting under his sternum, pressing against his lungs. They’ve been slowly renovating the house for three weeks now, working around Charles’s work schedule, and everything has been going so well, _so well,_ and now--

“Bucky,” Steve says, and when Bucky turns, he suddenly feels like someone threw a bucket of cold water on him.

Steve’s standing at the doorway of the bedroom, phone in hand and hair swept back from his face, but he’s not in cargo trousers and a flannel shirt anymore. Instead, he’s wearing an all-black tactical suit and heavy boots, fingerless gloves pulled on. Bucky’s never seen it before, didn’t even know there was anything like that in their apartment.

“It’s Chicago,” Steve says, and Bucky stares at the uniform, stares and stares and stares. Where had Steve stashed it in their small bedroom, and why had he kept it from Bucky? It must be fairly recent, because when Steve arrived in Maine back in February, all he’d had was one duffel bag of clothes, nothing battle-ready in sight.

Steve’s eyeing him, a complicated mix of emotions on his face: concern, guilt, determination. “It’s-- it’s looking like a nightmare, Buck, that’s why they alerted me,” Steve says. “It’s too big to risk it - I _have_ to go. The quinjet will be here in twenty.”

The spell breaks, and Bucky glances back towards the fridge, inhaling shakily. “Okay,” he hears himself saying. “Do you need a ride?”

“Yeah, to the airfield,” Steve says, and Bucky closes the fridge door and turns, unseeing like he’s in a dream, heading to put on his shoes and find the car keys.

“You could,” Steve starts, but there’s hesitation in his voice. “You could come with us,” and that’s when Bucky’s hands start to shake in earnest.

He’d finally made his peace with his past during the long, cold winter, accepting that he’d done terrible things under someone else’s influence, and that there was nothing he could do about it now, except to forgive himself and try his best to live better. And there it was again, the option: another rifle, another battle, another burden to carry on his back. No masters, not anymore, but would that taste any sweeter than what he was used to?

HYDRA had also told him that he would help save the world.

“No,” he finally manages, hating how his voice breaks on the word, and tugs his sneakers on, bowing his head down to tie the laces so that he doesn’t have to look at Steve. “I’m done with fighting. And I promised Matthew to go see him.”

Steve’s silent for a long moment, and when Bucky finishes tying his shoes and braves a glance up, Steve’s looking down at him, his expression so terribly, wonderfully open and fond, his whole heart written all over his face.

“Of course, Buck,” Steve says, coming closer, and then he’s pulling Bucky up and leaning tentatively in for a kiss. Bucky meets him halfway, because if he’s learnt something in his life, it is that he will never, ever again let Steve go _anywhere_ thinking that Bucky’s mad at him. They’ve had enough tragedy and too little of happiness.

The quinjet isn’t there yet when they arrive at the airfield, the truck bumping down the unpaved road, eaten by years of frost and neglect. They sit in the car in silence for a while after Bucky kills the engine, and then Steve’s opening their seatbelts and reaching out over the center console, and Bucky tips easily into his embrace.

It feels strange to hold Steve like this, with the suit so coarse and stiff between them: until now there’s only been soft, vulnerable layers of wool and cotton and flannel separating them, letting them be close and let their guard down.

“Please be careful,” he says against Steve’s shoulder, inhaling the unsettling mix of Steve’s familiar deodorant and the leather and canvas of the new suit.

“I’ll do my best,” Steve says, crushing Bucky against him despite the awkward angle over the gear stick, and when Bucky makes a disbelieving noise, Steve pulls back to look him in the eye.

“I swear, sweetheart,” Steve says, his face serious and intense. “Sam will kick my ass for you if I do something dumb.”

Bucky cracks a smile at that, and Steve smiles back and kisses him, threading his hand into the hair at the back of Bucky’s skull, messing up the braid, and just keeps kissing him until the rumble of the approaching quinjet brings reality back in. The jet lands smoothly on the field, the hatch opening in wait.

“I love you,” Bucky says before Steve can leave, his lips tingling with the scrape of Steve’s beard. “Stay safe.”

Steve leans in for one final kiss, hard and unyielding against Bucky’s mouth, and opens the door. “I love you too,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to text,” Bucky says. “Modern technology is often difficult for old people,” and then Steve’s shoving him, face softening briefly into something private that’s meant just for Bucky, put-upon and fond and amused.

“You’re older than me, asshole,” he says. “Besides, your modem wasn’t installed properly, until _someone_ fixed it,” before he brushes his lips over Bucky’s nose, gets out of the car and slams the door closed. Bucky watches him jog across the airfield to the jet, the tiny figure of Tony Stark walking out to meet him.

The jet looks out of the place in the middle of the Maine countryside. Bucky stares at the hatch as Stark and Steve get in, and suddenly all he can see is the burning helicarrier with its destroyed quinjets, and himself, kicking a pilot into the running rotors. He wrenches back against the seat, trying to dispel the memory, and starts the engine just as the jet lifts off and disappears under a cloaking shield.

He drives back home with his concentration in shambles, trying to stay alert long enough to park the car and kill the engine. Once the car’s quiet, Bucky leans his head against the wheel and inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, concentrating on his breathing for a long, still while. He fought for this life and he deserves it; it doesn’t do to dwell in the past. If he starts thinking that he needs to make amends for what he was forced to do, he will never stop. He’s beaten himself enough over it.

His hands are clenched on the wheel, and he has to consciously loosen his grip to not crush it. Steve will be fine. He has a whole team to watch his back, now, and Bucky made his bed when he said no; all he can do now is lie in it.

But what if this isn’t the odd occasion? What if the alerts will start coming in more and more frequently, and in the end it will be like Steve never let the shield go at all? They’ve managed for two whole months without incident, but Bucky should’ve known that Steve was restless, even after he got a physical outlet in renovating the house. But a _suit?_ Bucky doesn’t want to know what it implies, but he can’t help but think about the what ifs.

Suddenly he misses Ruth: her bright, yellow eyes and head turned in curiosity, her talons curling around Bucky’s metal fingers. He thinks about the softness of her underdown, her weight on his arm, the easy, happy way she rouses when she sees him; and he has to squeeze his eyes closed to stop them from watering. How is she doing in the aviary - is she healthy, her molt proceeding like it should?

It’s been barely a month, and knowing he won’t see her until September sits in his chest like a boulder. How the hell is he supposed to survive through the whole summer without her to care for?

Letting Ruth go was harder than he’d ever imagined, and for days after her departure he kept walking down to the mews, ready to take her out to the fields, only to find empty perches and unused jesses and remember that she wasn’t there, wouldn’t be for almost six months. Steve’s presence has been helping with the separation, but it’s entirely different to use caring for something else as a way to care for himself, than to actually let somebody do it for him.

They’ve been taking care of each other, him and Steve, but what the hell is going to happen now, if Steve is going back to being Captain America and Bucky’s left unmoored and hawkless?

_I’m doing my best,_ he thinks, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. _I’m trying so hard. God, I hope I’m wrong about this._

It takes him a long time to get a grip of himself, glad that Bill and Irina are visiting Mariyam and Jacob and therefore not witnessing his meltdown, but finally he slides out of the car and heads down the road towards the town. There’s a headache forming at the back of his skull, and he forces his shoulders down, trying to relieve some of the tension. He’s been getting more and more headaches lately, and the culprit is clear - his left arm has been weighing him down for as long as he can remember. He compensates by leaning to the right, and his spine is constantly crooked because of it. He’s managed with it for the past year, but all the continuous manual labor at the building site has made the shoulder seam flare up and worsened the muscle cramps in his upper back and neck.

If he could just take the damn thing off, he would - but he needs his left arm, there’s nobody capable of handling tech like that around here, and just the thought of the nerve pain he suffered during and after every repair is enough to make him swallow back bile. So he handles the headaches, and the muscle pains and the inflammation at the seam, even though sometimes his whole upper body hurts so bad that all he wants is to curl up and pass out.

Steve’s been doing whatever he can - massaging out the knots in Bucky’s back and neck, carefully rubbing antibiotic salve to the inflamed area, giving head rubs and cool wraps for Bucky to put on his eyes, softly reading a book aloud when Bucky’s coming down from the worst of the pain. He’s been so fucking tender and Bucky’s so damn grateful for him that sometimes it’s almost as unbearable as the pain.

Matthew is in the kitchen when Bucky lets himself in through the back door, plates clinking as he empties the dishwasher. The whole house smells of rosemary and sun-dried tomatoes, a sure sign that Matthew’s been baking focaccia, and stress and anxiety leave Bucky between one breath and another. He’s home. He’s safe. Nobody will ever ask him to kill again.

“Jamie?” Matthew calls over the splutter of the coffeemaker, and by the time Bucky steps into the kitchen, he’s trying on a smile, worry folded away for the time being.

“Hey, Matthew,” he says. “Any onions today?”

***


	2. Chapter 2

Chicago is _bad._

There’s been a whole cell of HYDRA managing to fly under the radar in the city, waiting for their time after the failure of Insight, and there’s alien tech and the FBI mixed up in the mess. It’s a lot for them to handle even with a full team and Thor called in from Asgard to help.

Steve and Sam alternate with the shield: they both know how to use it, now, and it’s certainly easy to trust Sam with it. Steve takes lead in evacuating the civilians: the fight is centered in and around Grant Park, and there are so many tourists and locals alike, enjoying the nice spring weather. He and Natasha do their best with damage control, but there are lives lost no matter how hard they try, and all Steve can do is grit his teeth and carry on, praying silently that they get the situation under control soon.

He gets to shoot just a quick update to Bucky as the sun goes down before he’s pulled back in. After nightfall Chicago looks like a ghost town, the streets deserted of people who have been carted off to safety via subway tunnels, but their work isn’t done yet: they hunt HYDRA throughout the night, looking for bombs or other weapons of mass destruction they might have missed during the active fighting. It’s a long night and a terrible morning, and by the time the situation is finally over, it’s been a full twenty-four hours, and Steve’s taken two bullets to his leg.

It was a dumb mistake, but at least that’s the only major injury they suffer: the rest of the team get off with cuts, bruises, a sprained wrist and a twisted ankle, and Steve’s glad of that, at least.

The debrief takes another three hours, and by the end of it Steve’s ready to punch the World Council members in the face. They get reprimanded for civilian casualties, even though they did their best to prevent them, and this, _this_ is what Steve hates the most: to be reminded of every single person he failed to protect in a crisis, being manipulated so easily with his guilt.

He’s still fuming as he boards the quinjet with Sam and Nat: the rest of the team are staying behind for the clean-up, and Steve feels useless and stupid for getting benched for his injuries. The medic checks his wounds and re-dresses them while shaking his head in despair, trying to get Steve to come to the New York compound for the night to be monitored, but Steve declines, politely but firmly. He will heal soon, and if he can’t stay for the aftermath, he sure as hell won’t do anything else than get home and fold into Bucky, either.

Sam and Nat are both already fast asleep before they get in the air, slumped in their seats and leaning towards each other like pulled. They must be exhausted, having fought for hours upon hours. Steve watches as Nat’s head lands on Sam’s shoulder, and something warm and pleased lights up in his chest. Jesus, he loves them both like crazy, endlessly grateful that they took a good, long look at his sorry self and decided to keep him.

Sam turns his head in his sleep, nosing Nat’s dusty hair, and Steve has to look away and pull out his phone, feeling like he’s spying on something not meant for him.

He texts Bucky as soon as they’re in the air, but there’s no reply, just the little automated checkmark to indicate that Bucky’s seen the message. Steve sighs, rubbing dust and grime off his forehead and closing his eyes. Although they parted with kisses, it’s been over a day and Bucky must be angry at him, for the suit if nothing else.

Steve hadn’t asked for the uniform; it had just turned up one day on their step in a plain cardboard box, left there by the postman. Steve, back from the construction site to pick something up, had brought it in, pulled the suit out, panicked at the implication, and hidden it under the bed where Bucky’s snowsuit was neatly folded in a big, wheeled storage box. It was mid-April, after all, and Steve knew Bucky wasn’t going to look there until it was time for them to move house.

He hadn’t told Bucky about it, even though he’d been thinking about the suit a lot, and now it was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

The sun is already setting when they land on the airfield, and Steve’s chest feels like it’s bursting as he limps out of the quinjet and sees the familiar green truck parked at the side of the road, Bucky leaning against it.

Bucky’s hair is loose and flipped over his shoulder, the setting sun highlighting every red nuance in it, setting it aflame. He’s in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, his face bathed in the orange light, and for a moment Steve has to squeeze his hands into fists to overcome the overwhelming astonishment that he gets to come home like this, now.

“Is that Barnes?” Natasha murmurs under Steve’s arm, where she’s valiantly helping him walk across the field, even though her sprained wrist is strapped to her chest. “He looks good.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s throat feels tight with love and exhaustion and relief just at the sight of Bucky. “He does.”

Bucky straightens as they get closer, his expression neutral, but Steve’s got a keen eye and it’s easy to see that Bucky’s hands are curled into fists to keep them from shaking. It’s been a long mission for them both, short as it was.

“Barnes,” Natasha greets. “Here’s your guy. He’s got two holes in his calf and needs some sleep, but is otherwise fine.”

“I’m right here,” Steve grumbles to her, but it’s half-hearted and there’s no heat in his voice, his hand already greedily reaching out for Bucky.

“Romanoff,” Bucky says curtly, nodding at her as he steps closer to support Steve’s weight. “Thanks.”

Natasha nods, pats Steve on the chest and slips out from under his arm. “I’ll call you later, Steve. Goodnight.” Then she’s gone, heading back towards the quinjet.

Bucky watches her go like a hawk, eyes narrowed and wary. It was perhaps cruel to throw Natasha in his way like this, given that he was once ordered to kill her, but there was no other option: Sam had twisted his ankle, and Steve wasn’t about to let the medic know who he was living with.

When Bucky turns and catches Steve’s eye, his expression falters and shutters and folds into a mess of worry and relief, and then he’s sliding both arms around Steve and squeezing, pushing his head under Steve’s chin.

“Jesus,” he says, his voice weak. Steve hugs him back gratefully, listening to the sound of the quinjet taking off, and suddenly all the irritation and feelings of worthlessness are bleeding out of him, leaving just exhaustion behind. He made it back. He’s needed. He was _missed._

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Hey.”

Bucky shivers at the endearment as he pulls back. “Come on,” he says, reaching back to open the car door. “Let’s go home.”

The drive home is quiet. Bucky’s fingers are tight on the wheel as he drives, and Steve’s too exhausted to try to keep up conversation: he puts his hand on Bucky’s thigh and closes his eyes, eager for sleep, but all he can see is the blue blasts of the HYDRA guns. Bucky’s leg is warm and tense under his touch; grounding.

“Are you mad at me?” Steve asks into the silence.

“No,” Bucky says. “Yes,” he says then. “No. I don’t know.”

The car slows down, turns sharply to the right and comes to a halt. When Steve opens his eyes, he almost feels like weeping with relief at being back home. And that’s what it is, really - the first real home he’s had ever since Bucky shipped out. Sure, he’s called a few places home after that, like the Dupont Circle walk-up he lived in for almost two years, or Sam’s house, but none of them made him feel like the Meadows’ place has, in the end, because none of them had _Bucky._

“Let’s talk about this later,” Bucky says as he gets out of the car and rounds to open Steve’s door. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

He helps Steve peel off the suit and draws him a bath, eases Steve down into the tub so that the injured leg sticks out, safely out of the water. It’s so quiet, just the splashing of water echoing in the bathroom, but the silence isn’t oppressive: Bucky’s face is serious as he scrubs sweat and dirt off Steve’s skin, but he doesn’t look angry, just focused.

It isn’t until Steve’s dressed and sitting down on the side of the bed, exhausted and glad to be home, that Bucky starts pulling sheets out of a drawer. “I’m gonna sleep on the couch,” he says, not meeting Steve’s eye. “So your leg can heal without being jostled.”

“What?” Steve blinks. “No, that’s not necessary, you don’t have to. We can fit just fi--”

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky says, and suddenly he sounds tired and tight, like when he’s got a headache or his back is hurting. He heads to the living room, spreading a sheet over the couch and starting to tuck the corners in as Steve stares through the doorway, dumbfounded.

He thought Bucky would be angry, but now, confronted with it, Steve doesn’t know what to do - he’d expected them to yell a little and then make up like they used to, like he imagined their pent-up energy explosion to be back in March. Only it never came, and now Bucky’s tense and distant, skirting away from a fight in a way he never did before. His jaw is clenched, his hair pulled up into a half-ponytail to keep it out of the bath water, and Steve thinks, _Is this the part where he tells me to get the hell out of his life,_ before catching himself.

When Bucky shakes the extra blanket open, Steve pushes himself up and hobbles to the door. “Talk to me,” he pleads, propped up by the doorway. His leg is aching, but it will be a lot better by the morning. “Bucky, come on. Please.”

Bucky snaps the pillowcase in the air to straighten it, working the pillow inside. “Where did you hide the suit?” he finally asks, not looking up.

“With your snowsuit,” Steve says, straightening up. It makes sense that Bucky would ask that - the apartment is small, and it shouldn’t be easy to hide something that big in there. “Under the bed.”

A muscle ticks in Bucky’s jaw. “How long have you had it?” He folds the blanket neatly back, so that the couch, worn as it is, looks inviting like a real bed. If Steve knows him at all, Bucky’s probably berating himself for not realizing that there was something extra in the storage boxes, even though he’s had no business to check there since winter ended.

“Two weeks.” Steve fidgets a little, twisting the hem of his shirt. “Tony sent it to me, but I didn’t ask him to. I should’ve told you about it, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I-- Well. I panicked.”

“Why?” Bucky’s still not looking at him, and God, Steve never wants to see another day where he makes Bucky so angry and upset that he refuses to meet Steve’s eye.

He swallows. He could claim he didn’t know, but what good would that ever do? They’ve had enough hardship from the lack of communication, and he’s already fucking up, pulling the rug from under the only constant thing he ever dreamt of. His throat feels tight with nerves as he says, “Because I was terrified that you’d think I was going to leave you.”

That makes Bucky look up, and Steve powers on, trying to get it out before Bucky stops listening. Bucky deserves nothing less than the truth, and anything he’s willing to accept from Steve after that.

“I’ve never been so happy in my life as I am since I came here,” he says. “I won’t lie - I’ve had the alerts before, but they weren’t meant for me, so I put it aside and tried not to think about it. But it’s just-- hard, knowing that they’re going out and I can’t do anything to help, and this was - Christ, Bucky, it was _terrible._ I couldn’t refuse it; I never could have, knowing what it was, and I don’t regret going.”

He takes a deep breath. Bucky’s eyes are wide and unreadable. “I love you,” Steve says, offering everything in him up for Bucky to look at and evaluate and hopefully accept. “I love you so much that sometimes I think I’m going nuts from it, and I never want to live without you again. I know I promised that I’d stay, and I didn’t lie when I said I don’t miss the fighting. But I was so scared that if I told you about the suit, you’d think that I asked for it, that it meant that you weren’t good enough for me. Because that’s not true.”

Bucky’s mouth is parted in surprise, and Steve looks at him standing next to the couch in his t-shirt and the sweatpants he put on to avoid getting bathwater on his jeans; with his half-ponytail and woolen socks, leaning heavily to the right to counter the weight of his metal arm. He’s the loveliest thing Steve’s ever seen, and suddenly Steve’s choking up, trembling with the weight of the past twenty-eight hours and the thought of losing Bucky on top of it.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he forces out, “but I’m _trying,_ Buck, I’m trying so hard to be good for you, because _you_ deserve everything, and all I can offer you is ugly braids and feelings I don’t know how to handle, and maybe a house someday, and now I’m fucking all this up--” He draws a hitching breath, trying to calm himself down and stop the anxiety attack from powering up. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I should’ve told you.”

“Honey,” Bucky says, and his voice breaks, and shit, that’s not what Steve aimed for, he didn’t want to make Bucky _cry_ over his clumsy apology--

_“Honey,”_ Bucky says again, and then he’s in front of Steve, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and hauling Steve into his arms, so much like the day Steve found him again and broke down over a plate of fucking _stew,_ of all things. He’s almost embarrassed by the memory: after he’d gotten the serum, he’d taught himself that with the blessing he’d been given, he had to be a cornerstone and therefore stable, steady. He’d managed that all the way through to the 21st Century, until Bucky did one nice thing for him and Steve started crying all over the place.

And here he is again, making Bucky comfort him when he should be angry at Steve, and for a good reason. Shame coils in Steve’s belly but Bucky holds him, holding Steve’s face against his neck with one hand, squeezing his waist with the other, and Steve folds into him like a house of cards, leeching in the warmth offered to him.

“You don’t deserve me, _my ass,”_ Bucky says, and his voice is low and firm and a little indignant even when it catches in his throat. “You’re the most unselfish bastard I’ve ever seen, never asking for a damn thing for yourself, and you think _you_ don’t deserve _me?_ You love me, and my-- my _family,_ and you do my hair and make me coffee and read aloud to me when I have headaches. You’re basically building us a fucking house, Steve. You’re doing so many things for me, I don’t even know where to start.”

Bucky draws a breath and tightens his grip. “I love your braids,” he says, and suddenly his voice is thin and wavering. “You didn’t have to learn, but you did anyway.”

“I want to give you everything,” Steve says, muffled by Bucky’s t-shirt, and Bucky cards his fingers through his hair, strokes his ear with his thumb.

“But you already do, Steve. I’m just--” Bucky swallows audibly, throat working a couple of times. “I’m scared that you can never let the shield go.”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? If Bucky’s resigned to the fact that the shield will always come first, Steve really needs to sit the fuck down and rethink his life over again. He knows that he will never be able to completely sit out - if there’s a repeat of the Chicago situation, he _has_ to go - but if he starts to answer the calls for anything less than a catastrophe, he will soon be just as busy as he was before Bucky.

It’s been good to have a long break and something else to do, but he’s not yet done with his service, and to fit both the team and the long-awaited happy ending he’s finally gotten with Bucky into his life, he just needs to reinvent himself as an Avenger. How, he doesn’t know yet, but something will come along, and in the meantime he’ll do everything he can to keep Bucky happy.

He should probably finally take Sam’s advice and get some fucking therapy, too.

He takes a deep breath and straightens, blinking the wetness from his eyes. Bucky loosens his grip reluctantly, but Steve grabs his hands, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “I’m gonna figure it out,” he says, voice rough. “You’re-- you’re my everything. You’ll always come first.”

Bucky lets out a sigh, and it’s like all the fight leaves him in that one exhale, making him sag. His forehead is hot against Steve’s, and Steve wonders again if he’s having a headache or if his tension was just anger.

“Says the guy who came on my chest three days ago and still hasn’t returned the favor,” Bucky tries feebly to joke, and Steve has to kiss him, then; cup his jaw with both hands and press their lips together, so many times that he loses count, until Bucky’s starting to smile, his mouth sweet and relieved and irresistible.

“God, I fucking love you, Barnes,” Steve says between kisses, Bucky’s hands heavy and comforting on his neck. “Please come to bed, my leg will be fine.”

“If this is some half-assed seduction attempt, you can forget about it and go sleep in the mews.” But Bucky kisses back eagerly, anyway; lets Steve shuffle them awkwardly back into the bedroom, helping him hobble on his injured leg. They’ll clear the sheets from the couch tomorrow.

Steve waits on the bed as Bucky changes into sleep clothes and brushes his teeth and hair, reaching out for the offered hair tie as soon as Bucky sits down with his back to him. The plain braid comes quick and easy now, after weeks of practise, and when he tugs gently at the end to signal he’s done, Bucky leans back against him, rests his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m glad we had that fight,” Bucky admits, eyes closed. “It’s-- good, to get some things out. Better that than to stew on it until we hate each other’s guts.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, pressing his nose into Bucky’s hair. “I’m surprised we got this far without one. We’ve been pretty codependent, it was bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I don’t really like arguing, nowadays.” Bucky’s shoulders seem so narrow like this, framed by Steve’s bulk; he’s pulling himself in like he’s afraid to relax. He _must_ be hurting somewhere: he always gets even tenser when he should be doing the opposite, because loosening up lets the ache properly in. “That fight or flight response? Always flight. I just want to get out, I don’t want it to escalate. Guess I’m afraid that something happens and I’ll just-- snap.”

_You won’t,_ is Steve’s first reaction, but he bites it back just in time. He doesn’t know, not really, and empty placating has never been his style, anyway. Bucky probably wouldn’t appreciate it. “That’s a good strategy,” he says instead, because it genuinely is, and it’s not his place to judge Bucky’s actions. “But - if it came to that? I can take you. You’re safe. I’ll make sure you don’t hurt anyone.”

Bucky opens his eyes at that, looking up at Steve. His eyes look almost green in the lamplight. “Thank you,” he says, and that’s that.

“Your arm,” Steve says softly when they are tangled together under the duvet, carefully arranged so that Steve’s leg is jostled as little as possible. Bucky’s head is heavy on his shoulder, the braid lifted onto the pillow and out of the way as Steve’s fingers dig gently into the rock-hard muscles at Bucky’s neck. “I think Tony might be able to help with it.”

Bucky tenses against him, and Steve rushes to explain before he gets the wrong idea. “I didn’t tell him anything,” he assures, and Bucky relaxes, just a little. “But he’s the only one I can think of who could crack the tech. In the best case scenario, he could build you a _new_ one.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long, long while, and Steve almost takes it back. But the arm has been causing Bucky so much trouble lately, and Steve _hates_ to see him suffer from its weight. He’s not gonna back out of this one, if there is even the slightest chance that it might improve Bucky’s health.

“We’ll see,” Bucky says finally in that mild way of his that means _no way in hell._

“Sure,” Steve agrees, and quietly thinks, _We’ll absolutely see._

**

His leg heals and he gets back to renovating. Charles very tactfully doesn’t ask where he disappeared for a few days, and that’s-- that’s when Steve knows that what they’ve stumbled across is something miraculous and magical. It’s one thing to get to stay with Bucky, surrounded by good people doing good deeds; but it’s another to be left so completely in peace, not a single word uttered to the outside world about Steve and Bucky’s true identities.

The aftermath of Chicago takes weeks to clean up, but Steve’s team keeps him firmly and decidedly out of it: Natasha keeps him updated but refuses to accept Steve’s offers of flying out to handle the paperwork. Not that Steve actually _craves_ to do paperwork, but he’s already feeling bad for not staying for the cleanup and like he should help at least somehow.

“You know what,” she says finally during one of her calls. “If you want to help - there just might be something you could do.”

“What’s that?”

It’s early May already, and Steve’s sitting on the roof of the house, sweating under the sun, gulping huge mouthfuls of lukewarm Gatorade. Charles is sorting through the pile of materials down in the yard; he slid pointedly to the ladder and headed off as soon as Steve’s phone went off. He’s a good guy, a little stoic and silent, but Steve likes his honesty and wry sense of humor.

“We’re getting some new kids in,” Nat says. “Three, to be precise. It’s a ragtag group, and I’m not exactly sure where Tony found them - two of them are enhanced.”

“Huh,” Steve says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his arm. “I’m listening.”

“I know you are, Greatest Generation,” Nat says, amused. “They’re not handling their powers properly yet, and could use some training, both with the enhancements and general strategy, tactics, blah blah blah. And I know for a fact that there’s a superpowered guy who’s been called the greatest tactician of our time, sitting around in Maine and angsting over his Avengers career.”

“Excuse you, I’m fixing a roof,” Steve ribs back. “Training, huh?”

“Yep. Think about it, will you? I know you’re committed to your new life, and I respect that, but I think it could be good, both for you and for them.”

Steve sits there, breathing in the smell of spring, everything around him growing and budding in dizzying speed. It’s-- an option to consider, for sure, and he’d have to talk to Bucky first and foremost, but there’s so many things Steve’s picked up since signing up for Project Rebirth that he wishes someone had told him early on, and - fuck, he’s already starting to make plans, spinning the idea. “Training would require me to come to New York a lot, though,” he says, not yet fully willing to admit his interest.

“Not necessarily,” Nat says, prepared as always. “Tony has this new tech that he’s been tinkering with - don’t ask me what its name is, some kind of alphabet soup - but early tests have been promising. It’s a new type of 3D holo projection, we could utilize that.”

“Possibly,” Steve agrees. It doesn’t surprise him that Natasha has thought of everything: her brain functions in a capacity that Steve feels tired just picturing.

There’s a lot that could go wrong with Tony’s inventions, given his habit of thinking with his heart instead of using logic, but Steve has to admit that the idea of a holo projection is tempting. It would let him get through training exercises without actually having to leave Maine, and maybe he could even cajole Bucky into sparring with him, to better demonstrate the techniques--

Oh. _Oh._

He sits up straighter. He’s been trying to make Bucky agree to talking to Tony about upgrading the arm for weeks, now - never really badgering him to annoyance, but small, persistent hints, keeping the thought out there. Steve knows he needs to up his game soon, though - Bucky’s headaches have gotten steadily worse, his whole upper body tense and tight no matter what Steve does to help him. The worst case so far sent Bucky to bed with the curtains closed for three days, and Steve doesn’t want to see the repeat of that. A new prosthetic looks inevitable, but perhaps - sparring could be good for Bucky, too, like physical therapy.

“Steve?” Nat prompts.

“Sorry,” Steve says, jolted out of his thoughts. “I gotta think about it.”

“Wouldn’t imagine otherwise,” Natasha says. “Let me know what you decide, there’s no rush.”

“I will.” Steve waves at Charles, indicating that his call is almost done. “Thanks, Nat. Take care.”

“You too. Don’t fall off that roof, old man, you might break something.”

“Har har,” Steve says, unimpressed. “Say hi to Sam.”

“Fuck you,” Nat says, but she’s smiling. “Bye.”

**

Bucky’s leaning on the dining table when Steve gets home in the afternoon, moving something around. There’s an adorable, concentrated furrow on his forehead, and Steve wants to press his thumb there, smooth it out.

“Hey,” Steve says as he takes off his shoes and wanders closer, slipping under Bucky’s arm as he lifts it invitingly.

“Hey.” Bucky turns his head for a kiss. “How’s the roof?”

“Progressing.” Steve kisses him again just because he can, then turns to look at the sample materials on the table. “For the kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Lena picked these out when I said that granite was for cold-hearted people and that the marble looked like it was stolen from someone’s mausoleum.”

Steve snorts. “She must have loved that.” He rubs the collection of laminate and wood countertop samples with his thumb. “Granite is sturdy, though.”

“Who do you reckon is gonna be sitting on that countertop more?” Bucky asks, digging his metal fingers into the meat of Steve’s shoulder. “If you wanna toss a guy around, you horndog, you better think about his poor bare ass and how cold granite is.”

That makes Steve laugh, and he turns, grabs Bucky under the ass and heaves him on the dining table. “Is that so?”

“Them’s the rules,” Bucky confirms, and Steve has to lean in and kiss him for a stupidly long while, bracing himself against the table with his hands, lips sliding against Bucky’s in a series of small pecks that turn into long, lazy kisses. Bucky threads his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugging a little; Steve’s definitely due for a haircut, but he’s starting to like the slide of Bucky’s hand through it so much that he keeps putting it off.

“Hey, I need to talk to you about something,” Steve says when they eventually manage to separate, and Bucky’s wrapping his limbs around Steve in a full-body hug. “Nat made me an offer.”

Bucky goes quiet and still at the words, but relaxes when Steve noses his hair. “Hm?”

“They have taken in a couple of enhanced kids. Nat asked me to train them.”

“Kids?”

“Don’t know the details.” Steve digs his thumb in the muscles around Bucky’s spine, earning a surprised inhale, and then Bucky’s going boneless in his arms, accepting the impromptu massage. “She said Tony’s got some kind of holo projector in the works, and that got me thinking - you could spar with me to show them some tricks.”

“I’m not sure,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s shoulder, his breath hitching whenever Steve’s fingers hit a sore spot.

“Sparring could help with your back,” Steve says and pushes mercilessly against a hard knot below Bucky’s shoulder blade. “Give you some actual muscles in your torso instead of the pathetic excuses you have now.”

“I’ll show you a pathetic excuse,” Bucky says, affronted, and they jostle around for a while, squabbling like kids: Steve puts his tongue in Bucky’s ear, getting a high-pitched yelp and a sharp heel into his asscheek as his prize. It’s a good day for Bucky’s health, a rarer and rarer occurrence these days, and Steve relishes the bickering and half-hearted shoving, eventually picking Bucky up, carrying him to the couch and dumping him there just to make him stop squirming.

“Look at you,” he says smugly at Bucky’s enraged expression. “You couldn’t take a squirrel.”

Instead of a reply, Bucky deftly shoots his leg out and swipes Steve behind the knees, rolling out of the way and onto his feet as Steve pitches forward with a surprised yelp. In a few short seconds, he’s facedown on the couch, Bucky sitting on his back, pinning Steve’s arms with a sharp knee.

“A squirrel, huh,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “That explains your unnaturally large teeth.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake--” Steve tries to throw him off, but Bucky digs his finger into a pressure point, and Steve’s whole left arm goes numb. “Hey! That’s cheating!”

“By whose rules?” Bucky asks but eases off, letting Steve flip onto his back. Bucky’s perched on the armrest of the couch, his hair in disarray and a slight flush on his cheekbones, and his eyes are so bright and delighted that out of the blue Steve feels winded, taken aback by how fucking lovely he is.

He stares for so long that Bucky starts shifting, looking unsure, his grin dimming. “Steve?”

Steve sits up and reaches out to touch the flush on Bucky’s cheek, and suddenly he can picture it so vividly: Bucky in his sweats and compression shirt, his hair tied back, kicking Steve’s ass in that astonishingly sharp and clean way he fought in D.C., going red-cheeked and dark-eyed with the thrill of sparring.

God, it would be _so good._

“You’re goddamned pretty, Barnes, did you know,” he says instead, because it’s not the time to get a-- a fucking competence boner, and Bucky _blushes,_ ducking his head.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Flatterer.”

“I’m _your_ flatterer,” Steve says. “But for real - do you want me to talk to Natasha? You know I would never make you do anything you’re not comfortable with, but I really think it has a lot of potential. It might ease the strain and help with your headaches.”

Bucky stays crouched on the armrest for a long, still while, biting his lip as he mulls it over. “Okay,” he says finally. “We can try it. Something’s gotta change, so it might as well be this.” He slumps back into Steve’s arms, squeezing a little. “I think you training those kids could be good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shifts, sprawled uncomfortably on Steve’s lap. “So you’d be a back-up plan for the team?”

“Probably.” Steve tips back so that they’re more or less lying down on the couch, Bucky propping his chin on Steve’s sternum. “Planning, strategy, training. And if the situation calls for it, suiting up.”

“Hm.” Bucky mulls it over as Steve crosses his arms behind his head, settling in. “I guess you probably wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try and get your face bashed in from time to time.”

Steve laughs. “Got me there,” he says, and they lie there in comfortable silence until it’s time to get up and start preparing dinner.

He calls Natasha back the next day.

* * *

  
In mid-July Sam finally steels himself, borrows a car from Tony, and braves the I-95. Turns out that his love-hate relationship with the interstate hasn’t magically solved itself in the past five months, but it’s a lot nicer to drive when the weather is good.

The house looks quiet when he parks, and he takes the opportunity to desperately stuff his twenty-six candy wrappers into a gas station plastic bag, reaching under the seats trying to locate the empty soda bottles he knows are under there somewhere. Even though Tony has so much money that he could probably buy a new car just because there was one gummy Lifesaver stuck to the center console, Sam does want to keep his slobbery to himself and his pride intact, thank you very much. Being neat while driving is damn difficult.

He’s so busy cleaning up the mess he made while driving that he fails to notice when the garage door opens. It’s not until he hears the crunch of gravel and a soft, “Hey,” coming through the rolled-down window that Sam looks up.

Barnes is standing a couple of feet from the car, wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt even in the July heat. His left hand is hidden in his pocket, and his hair is French braided in a way that swoops back from his forehead and ends up on his shoulder, heavy and thick. Sam suddenly remembers Steve’s lovestruck expression and babbling about doing Barnes’s hair during their Facetime sessions. Steve’s got it _so bad._ Sam is so, so happy for him.

“Hey,” Sam says, abandoning the trash and getting out of the car, wiping his hands on his shorts. “Sorry for barging in, I did text Steve my ETA but didn’t think to check if he saw it.”

Barnes smiles, seeming a lot less wary of Sam than the last time they met, back in February, but there’s something tight around his eyes and he looks pale under the tan. “No problem,” he says in an oddly quiet voice. “Steve’s up the road at the house. I texted him that you’re here, so he should be down soon.”

He comes a little closer, walking slowly and gingerly, and when he extends his right hand towards Sam, it’s shaking, just a little. “I never really introduced myself. Bucky Barnes. Or Jamie Nolan, however you want.”

“Sam Wilson,” Sam says, adapting the same half-hushed tone, closing the distance and shaking his hand. He takes in the painful shuffling and the pinched expression and realizes that Barnes must be hurting somewhere, maybe his head if he’s trying to keep the volume low. “Good to finally meet you properly.”

“Likewise.” Barnes smiles, and then Steve’s jogging into the yard. He’s wearing cargo shorts and an indecently tight t-shirt, and he’s still sporting the beard, beaming like the sun under it. “Sam!” he calls. “You made it!”

“Damn right I made it,” Sam says, turning to him and spreading his arms in an invite, grinning. Jesus fuck, he’s missed Steve so much.

Steve grabs him into a gigantic hug, squeezing so hard that Sam’s ribs creak. He’s practically vibrating with energy and happiness in his dusty work clothes, and he smells like paint and wood chippings.

Steve had driven down to New York and the Avengers compound in late May to see his old team outside of a battlefield and to discuss his role in the future, meet the new kids he had agreed to train, and Sam almost hadn’t recognized him when he stepped out of the dark teal farm hick car. It had been the lightness of Steve’s steps and the relaxed way he held his body - a far cry from the coiled-up spring he’d once been - that made Sam nearly mistake him for someone else; a Steve he had never seen before.

“Look at you, mountain man,” Sam says against Steve’s shoulder, his voice a little wobbly. “Renovating a house with your own hands, braiding your boyfriend’s hair, giving excellent hugs. Where the hell do they make people like you?”

Steve laughs, but he, too, has to wipe his eyes a bit when he lets Sam go. “It’s the early 20th century charm,” he says.

“Liar,” Barnes says with a nonplussed expression that says he’s not buying any of Steve’s bullshit. “Early 20th century charm my ass, he was _hopeless_ when he was a kid.”

Sam bursts into laughter at Steve’s indignant, “Hey!”

“A man who doesn’t take Steve’s shit is a man after my own heart,” Sam says, making Barnes laugh.

Steve steps closer to Barnes, putting a hand on his lower back and kissing his temple. “How’re you doing?” Steve asks, voice lowering to accommodate whatever headache Barnes is suffering from.

“A little better.” Barnes leans gratefully against Steve’s side, his expression smoothing out. “I would like to go lie down again, though, if that’s fine?”

“Of course,” Steve says. “I’ll get Sam settled in and take him to see the house.” He glances up at Sam, and there’s a hint of well-concealed worry in his eyes. “Sam, do you mind waiting a few?”

Sam shakes his head. “Not at all. I’ll see you later, Jamie?” He picks the name deliberately, showing that he’s willing to work his way to calling him Bucky if Barnes so wishes, but that he sees first and foremost the guy he met in February, not the ghost of a war hero or Steve’s childhood sweetheart.

It’s the right choice, because something loosens up in Barnes’s expression, and he smiles. “Yeah, absolutely. You have to tell me all the dirt you have on Steve.”

“So that’s how it is?” Steve asks, squeezing Barnes a little tighter against his flank. “You two ganging up on me?”

“That’s how it is, man,” Sam agrees, grinning.

Steve rolls his eyes at him. “I’ll be just a minute,” he says, and then he and Barnes walk slowly across the yard to the garage door, disappearing inside.

Sam watches them go, concern clenching in his gut. During his May visit, Steve had sat with Tony in one of the conference rooms for a long time, the door closed, and when they finally emerged, they were somber and quiet, heading to separate directions after a brief handshake. Sam still doesn’t know what they disagreed about, if that’s what they did, but he has a suspicion that it’s got something to do with Barnes.

Steve’s always been a little cagey and bad with handling his feelings, and it hasn’t really changed much since he started talking to one of the thoroughly-vetted therapists Tony has on call. He’s always been a little more frank and relaxed with Sam than others, maybe because Sam came into his life as a stranger and a fellow vet instead of another superpowered person: despite the whole Insight mess their friendship has always been two dudes in their thirties first and world-savers second. That’s what their calls have been in the past months, too - baseball, Sam bitching about New York and the subway but singing rhapsodies about the food, Steve lamenting the renovation or talking about Barnes’s hair. _How’s being/not being Cap_ has been tucked somewhere near the end, like an afterthought.

They might not talk much about feelings in general, but if there’s something serious going on with Barnes’s health, Sam would like to assume Steve’s going to tell him about it sooner or later.

Steve comes back down a few minutes later, clearly struggling to plaster a smile back onto his face. “Thanks for waiting,” he says. “Where’s your stuff, I’ll help you carry it. Bill and Irina are getting groceries, but you can leave your bag in the guest room.”

“Perfect,” Sam says, but as he’s pulling his duffel bag out of the back seat, he can’t help but glance up at the dark windows of the garage upstairs, hesitating to ask.

Steve, damn him, sees it, because he’s the most observant sonofabitch Sam has ever met, and his expression clouds over a little. “He’s got a bad headache,” he says in explanation. “It’s the arm - it fucks his upper back up and causes a lot of pain. It started in the spring and got really bad for a while, you probably remember when I told you about it. Sparring has helped to strengthen him, but it’s not exactly a miracle cure.”

“Shit,” Sam says, empathetic, and lets Steve take the bag from him as they head to the Meadows house. “Is there anything we can do?”

Steve’s quiet for a long time; long enough for them to reach the door, unlock it, and head up the stairs. As he sets Sam’s bag down on the guest room bed, he finally says, “Tony is making him a new arm. The surgery is scheduled for August so that Bucky can get back into hawk-flying shape by September.”

“Whoa, back up,” Sam calls, putting his hands up. “A new arm? Is that what you talked about with him in May?”

“Yeah.” Steve rubs the back of his head. “It took me over a month to get Bucky to come around to the idea of approaching Tony about it, but by then he was in really severe pain, so we decided to go for it.”

“How did Tony take it?”

Steve shrugs, fiddling with the strap of Sam’s duffel. “Mixed bag, like I thought. On one hand, a really cool tech project. On the other hand…” He hesitates visibly. “Tony had found files from the Insight leak that - in his eyes - indicated that the Winter Soldier had been ordered to kill Howard and Maria Stark.”

Sam blinks; once, twice. They haven’t discussed Barnes’s past as a forced Soviet murder machine since last autumn, when Sam made the last half-hearted attempt to convince Steve to stop searching. In the past few months Sam has managed to even forget it, sometimes, with all the mundane happiness Steve’s been telling him about.

“Jesus,” Sam says.

“Tell me about it.” Steve sighs. “We found solid evidence that it wasn’t the case in the end - Bucky was in cryo when it happened, and another operative was credited. It took a while to convince Tony of that, though.”

“But he agreed to help anyway.”

“He agreed to help anyway,” Steve confirms, his voice softening. “I guess his drive to do something kind for me won - he does care about the team a lot. Bucky’s been wearing a brace Tony made since June, and it’s already helped tremendously, especially with the exercise - his headaches are coming less often, but we’re waiting for the new arm to be finished. Are you hungry?”

“What? No,” Sam says, taken aback by the quick topic change. “I ate my weight in candy on the way, if I eat anything more I might barf.”

It makes Steve laugh, and just like that he’s back to the happy, elated Steve Sam’s starting to really, really enjoy. “Too many Lifesavers, huh? Dinner will be in a few hours, depending on how Bucky’s feeling - Bill hinted that there’s gonna be a barbeque. Jeff and Alicia were supposed to come today as well, but they postponed until tomorrow. Bucky loves those kids, but they aren’t exactly quiet.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Not the best medicine for a guy with a killer headache. That’s fine by me, I can enjoy a quiet evening. Besides, if there’s no kids, there’s nobody to judge me about drinking Irina’s homemade wine.”

“Oh trust me, I will judge you,” Steve says easily, and Sam punches him on the arm. “Let’s go see the house.”

The house, as it turns out, is nearly finished. Sam walks through the rooms, astonished by how fucking _nice_ everything is - not in the splurge-y McMansion way, but how warm and comforting it feels. There’s earthy tones and natural materials that make the small house seem like a nest even without any furniture, and he’s absolutely envious of the practical, beautiful kitchen with a window to the east to catch the morning sun.

“This is so nice, Steve,” he says. “What the hell, have you been hiding your interior design skills from me? Is there gonna be a _Steve Rogers: The Handyman_ on HGTV this fall?”

“Well, now that you _mentioned_ it,” Steve says, the little shit. “But no, one of Bucky’s friends in town is an interior designer, and her fiancé did most of the renovation. I just helped.”

“It’s really lovely.” Sam strokes a hand over the teak boards framing the kitchen doorway. They’re smooth as silk, worn over time. “Are these original?”

“Most of the teak is, yeah.” Steve pats it too. “I’m glad it was salvageable, it adds a lot of character.”

“Beautiful,” Sam murmurs to himself and gives the wood one more lingering touch. “How are you feeling?”

“About the house?” Steve leans against the wall and gazes across the open space formed by the dining and living rooms. His expression is contemplative but there’s rare, genuine peace under it, and it takes him a long time to answer. “Sometimes I resent it,” he says finally, startling Sam. “Because Bucky and I should’ve had this years ago, but we never got the chance. So sometimes all I can think about is that if I’d been able to give this to Bucky earlier - if we could’ve escaped the war, he would’ve been spared the things he went through.”

Steve rubs the doorframe, his eyes distant and a little wistful. “But that’s just me being morbid and angry at HYDRA, not the house’s fault. Most of the time I’m so happy that I don’t know how to handle it. Just the thought of getting to live here with Bucky--” He wipes his eye with the back of his hand, squaring his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll show you the patio.”

**

Bill and Irina are absolutely delighted to see Sam: Irina kisses him on both cheeks and tells him to go raid her pantry for any pickled goods he might ever want, and Bill claps him on the shoulder, saying, “Looking good, kid.”

It feels good to be back - it’s a hot day, but the heat is dry and crisp, nothing like D.C. in summer, and the countryside around them is full of sounds: bees, birds, crickets. Irina sends Sam to her vegetable patch to pick some side dish ingredients, and he squats there for a long while with a plastic basket half-filled with lettuce and small, sweet onions, inhaling the smell of herbs and warm soil and watching the bees hustle around the flower beds.

He’s been living in New York for nearly three and a half months, and slotting back into the city has turned out to be easy: he packed his shit up barely four weeks after Steve left for New England, and moved back to Harlem like he’d never left. Sam most definitely didn’t have the money for a house there even after he sold his property in D.C., but he’d found a nice walk-up he could afford that just needed some TLC - and maybe an exterminator, but hey, that’s NYC for you. He’s been slumming it at Stark Tower while getting the place up to par, and while in theory it’s nice to be in the thick of it, in practise-- really, Park Avenue? Not fucking worth it, he can’t wait to get out of Midtown.

The greenhouse door bangs, and he looks up to see Steve grimacing, his hands full of tomatoes and a gigantic cucumber under his arm.

“Did you crack it?” Sam asks, carefully cutting off a tuft of arugula and putting it in the basket.

“Nah, just nudged the door a bit too hard.” Steve inspects the glass once more and shrugs to himself, heading to Sam and handing the pile of tomatoes over. “Mind if I put some of these in the basket? Irina asked for an eggplant, too, and I’m running out of hands.”

Sam takes the cucumber from under Steve’s arm and holds the basket up so that Steve can unload several firm, plump tomatoes and some stalks of basil in. When he goes to examine the eggplants, Sam snips some more of-- well, everything he recognizes, which mostly means lettuce, arugula and baby spinach.

Barnes appears around the corner just as Steve turns, brandishing a reasonably-sized eggplant, and there’s absolutely a dick joke somewhere in there that Sam bites back barely in time. Barnes is walking a lot easier than earlier in the afternoon, and his pinched expression has smoothed out as he crosses over to the vegetable garden.

Sam gets up dusting his knees, and watches Steve catching Barnes by the hip, pushing his nose into Barnes’s hair for a moment. They exchange a couple of words that are too low for Sam to hear, and then Barnes kisses Steve’s cheek and wriggles free, turning to Sam.

“Hey,” Barnes says, smiling tentatively. “Sorry about ditching earlier, I was feeling like hell.”

“No problem,” Sam assures, picking up the vegetable basket and wiping sweat off his brow with his free hand. “Steve told me. How’s your head?”

Barnes shrugs. “Better. Haven’t had a bad case like this in a week, so I’m hoping we’ll get through the rest of your stay with just this hiccup.”

“Yeah, fingers crossed,” Sam says with as much sympathy as he can muster, and Barnes smiles again, broader and a little crooked. He and Steve make a comfortable-looking couple, standing side by side, leaning into each other just slightly: easy, effortlessly affectionate.

“Jamie!” Irina appears on the back porch, waving. “Perfect timing, I need an extra pair of hands. Bring the veggies.”

“Steve isn’t allowed in the kitchen, except for the fridge,” Barnes whispers loudly, making Steve elbow him. Barnes grabs the basket as he passes Sam, shooting him a smile as thanks, and heads to the house, the vegetables propped against his hip.

“How’s Nat?” Steve asks casually as he ambles to Sam, watching Barnes climb the porch stairs.

“Don’t even start, man,” Sam threatens, but can’t help the dumb smile that turns up, unbidden.

“What?” Steve’s all innocence, widening his eyes. “I’m just asking after a mutual friend.”

“Yeah, while staring at your live-in boyfriend’s ass. You’re not subtle, Rogers.”

Steve grins and nudges Sam with his shoulder. It feels like getting whacked by a baseball bat. “You don’t have to tell if you don’t wanna. But you look happy.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam says, but he hip-checks Steve back, grinning helplessly. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Steve.”

“Never,” Steve promises and breaks that promise in the very next sentence. “I’m happy for you.”

The thing with Natasha isn’t, well, an actual _thing,_ since Nat is still on and off around the world with Fury, handling the Insight fallout a full year after it happened. But there is a lot of potential, and a lot of interest from both parties, and Sam’s content to wait and see how it unfurls; nurture the possibilities and growing trust. “Me too,” he says, and tries to give Steve a noogie.

It’s a bad idea like Sam should’ve guessed, because Steve grabs him in a headlock, and they horse around for a while like that, until there’s grass stains on Sam’s shorts, Steve’s hair is in disarray, and they’re both beaming like the dumb shits they are. Sam’s chest feels impossibly warm with happiness and relief; both for getting to mess around with his best buddy like this, and for getting to see Steve so carefree and sure of himself.

“Steve,” Barnes calls from the doorway, looking unimpressed when they glance up. He’s holding a big tray, likely the food meant for the grill, and gesturing with his head for Steve to come take it. “Get moving, you’re not the only lump of meat in here just standing around and waiting for something to happen.”

Sam bursts into laughter, partly out of surprise, partly because of Steve’s put-upon expression, and then Steve’s calling back, “Tell that meat to respect its elders,” and suddenly Sam’s fucking _wheezing,_ clutching his stomach.

“Unlike you, its expiry date hasn’t passed yet, so chop chop,” Barnes shoots back, and Sam loses his shit all over again, Steve grinning from ear to ear as he gets up, jogs to the door and takes the tray, pecking Barnes on the mouth in the process.

“Oh my god,” Sam wheezes out as he rolls onto his feet and follows Steve to the tiled patio under the pergola where Bill is manning the grill. “He’s even worse than you are, I think I’m in love.”

“He’s a stupid fuck with nice hair,” Steve says fondly. “I loved him first, so hands off.”

“If you start fighting over Jamie’s affections, I’m pretty sure Ruth would win,” Bill says mildly, but there’s an amused twinkle in his eye. “Give me that tray and go make yourselves useful, the chair covers are in the shed and somebody needs to bring out the drinks.”

The dinner doesn’t take long after that, and by the time they’re sitting down, the whole yard is smelling delicious, making Sam’s mouth water. They don’t talk about the superhero stuff: instead, Bill and Irina bombard him about questions of New York and tell all the town and family gossip Sam might have missed in the past couple of months, and Steve chats about the renovation. He and Barnes are _terrible_ together, shooting shit at each other while Sam follows the back-and-forth with absolute glee, offering some dumb stories of Steve himself. Barnes is still a little reserved but wickedly funny, relaxing slowly as Sam joins him in ribbing Steve, making Irina and Bill shake their heads.

“Jamie was such a sweet kid before Steve turned up,” Bill says, faux-sad, casting his eyes heavenwards. “And listen to the crap he says now. No books warned me of this.”

“Sorry to let you down, Bill,” Steve says, grinning, resting his arm on the back of Barnes’s chair. “It’s all on me, Bucky was a nice Catholic boy before I turned up and corrupted him.”

Barnes rolls his eyes at Steve, but his smile is small and pleased. “Made me clean after you, you mean?”

But Steve and Barnes also keep bumping elbows and murmuring quiet _pass me the salt please_ s at each other, expressions soft and somehow intimate, and it’s not just once that Sam has to look away, feeling like he’s witnessing something not meant for his eyes, too fragile and private and tender.

There’s so much food: steak and grilled eggplant, two types of salad and hard-boiled eggs, appetizers of sliced tomatoes with mozzarella, basil and garlic. It’s good, honest summer food, and Sam has worked up an appetite to rival Steve’s, but by the time the dessert is cleared, he’s wishing his shorts had an elastic waistband instead of a button.

“Lord,” he says, “I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Irina says, patting him on the arm with a gleam in her eyes that promises terrible, wonderful things, like pancakes for breakfast, “Tomorrow is a new day.”

**

Later, after Barnes has kissed Steve goodnight and gone to bed, murmuring about sleeping badly the night before; after Bill and Irina have cleared the dishes and retired inside, shooing off any offers of help, Steve and Sam sit on the back porch swing with bottles of beer, listening to the night. It’s warm and a little humid, oppressive like there’s thunder coming in, but the stars are still visible, little pinpricks of light spreading across the sky.

Sam has been missing the unobstructed view of the stars ever since he left Afghanistan, residing in cities so filled with light pollution that he was lucky to see a star or two, if anything at all. But here they are far enough from street lights and cities, the town hidden behind the hills, and the sky looks vast and embroidered with light when Sam tips his head back. God, he really should come up here more often.

Being Captain America has been something that Sam never thought he really wanted - sure, it was once his childhood dream, but childhood dreams come and go, and the Army had kicked it out of him for good. But he’s been surprised by how much he _enjoys_ it: he can do so much good now for those who don’t have many people standing on their side. A black Harlem kid, out there fighting aliens and neo-Nazis with the symbol of free America in his hands? It’s a solid step towards wide representation, even though it certainly doesn’t mean that any deep-rooted racial issues are magically solved.

Someday, though, Sam would love to get what Steve finally has: a house out here, away from the hustle and bustle, and someone to share it with. Not yet; not for several years, but someday.

They rock the swing slowly with their feet, listening to the rustle in the thickets across the yard, and Sam wonders if Steve’s already imagining them on the porch of his own house instead of Bill and Irina’s.

“Charles has offered me a job,” Steve says quietly, breaking the silence. “He’s the guy who renovated the house, he thinks I could make a mean carpenter.”

“You’re already mean,” Sam says automatically before what Steve said sinks in. “Wait, a job? That’s _huge,_ Steve!”

Steve looks down at his hands, turning the beer bottle absently in his grasp, but there’s a small, sweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; genuine happiness. “Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t told Bucky yet, Charles made his offer this morning. But I think I’ll say yes.”

“That’s amazing.” Sam grips Steve’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “Look at you, Steve, you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you.”

“I never really thought I would figure it out,” Steve admits. “I mean-- when I came up here, all I wanted was a break, and to stay with Bucky, but I never stopped to think what I would actually do with my time without the Avengers. It was hard for me, for a while - Bucky has his own things, with helping in the café, Ruth - though she’s gone for the summer - and doing odd jobs around town, and I never really seemed to fit into that. Training those kids has made the retirement from the team easier, but when Charles asked if I wanted the job, it-- Now it feels like I finally found a real place for me.”

“He know you’re Captain America?”

“Yeah.” Steve takes a swig. “People don’t seem to care much, here - I’m pretty sure half of the town has figured us out, but nobody’s said a word about it.”

“I think that it’s the opposite, Steve,” Sam says. “They care a lot, and that’s why they’re keeping quiet.”

Steve’s face is soft and pleased, and he squeezes Sam’s shoulder briefly. “Maybe,” he says. “I’m damn grateful for it anyway.”

When he finally climbs into bed, sleepy and content, Sam takes a few seconds to be thankful for all the good things he’s gotten so far in his life; for the friends made and the chances taken. As he burrows under the sheet, listening to the thunder rumbling closer and closer, he thinks about the small town where so many of the people around him have found unexpected solace, and vows to keep it safe in any way he can.

He sleeps for eleven hours, uninterrupted.

Alicia and Jeff turn up the next day with the kids, and in a blink the whole house and yard turn into a wild, delighted chaos of yelling children who suddenly have _three_ muscled uncles to bother. It’s fascinating to watch Steve interact with the kids: there’s no inhibitions between them and Steve’s beaming constantly, letting the boys use him as their personal jungle gym. It makes Sam wonder if Steve’s ever wished for kids of his own - or if he’s ever felt like he’d get the _chance,_ with how fragmented and chaotic his life has been.

Back in D.C., Sam sometimes caught Steve just sitting and staring down at his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them; like he couldn’t shake off their emptiness. But now Steve’s hands are never empty: he holds vegetables, tools, Alicia’s kids, and most of all Barnes. They’re never far away from each other, touching absently or with intent, and it’s like by filling Steve’s hands Barnes has also filled his whole body, making it light and unsinkable.

Isaac creeps up to Sam and Steve when they’re setting the big table, helping Irina and Jeff to carry drinks and appetizers out to the backyard. He tugs at Steve's shorts looking shy and hesitant. “Mr Steve?”

“Hey kiddo,” Steve says as he and Sam both crouch down to Isaac's level. “What's up?”

Isaac bites his lip, glancing around like he's checking that nobody else is listening, and then asks, “Is Uncle Jamie sick? Mom said he is.”

Sam wants to cry, just a little. The kids are just too damn sweet.

They look up instinctively, finding Barnes easily: his hair is up in a bun and he looks relaxed and happy in his thin, long-sleeved cotton shirt and denim shorts. He's been a little quiet, a little more careful, but his smiles come easy, and he’s swinging Dominic around as usual. Steve’s fond, semi-misty eyes as he watches them could probably power ten Hallmark movies on their own, and fuck, Sam’s gonna choke up if Steve keeps it up.

_I’m gonna marry him someday,_ Steve had said last night on the porch. His tone had been decisive and a little pleased, like it was a happy fact he had realized was inevitable and was content to wait for. _Gotta get myself an honest profession first._

_He knows you’re a damn troublemaker, being a carpenter doesn’t change the fact that you like getting a black eye sometimes,_ Sam had said, because it was the truth, but he had also been hiding his smile in his beer bottle. _At least you don’t have to save up for a nice post-war bungalow before you put a ring on him._

They’d laughed then, but judging from the expression on Steve’s face now, he would happily build Barnes house after house until the end of the Earth if Barnes happened to ask.

“No, kid,” Steve says as he blinks out of his reverie and looks back to Isaac. “Uncle Jamie will be fine, he just had a bad headache yesterday. He gets those sometimes, you remember?”

Isaac nods reluctantly. “I don’t like it when Uncle Jamie is sad,” he near-whispers, and Sam just can’t help it; he scoops the kid up for a hug, _oomph_ ing a little at his weight.

“You’re a good kid, Isaac,” Sam says, and Isaac puts his hands around Sam’s neck. “It’s always good to look out for those we care about. Wanna go see if your Gramps has the grill going?”

“Yeah.” Isaac squeezes harder, nearly throttling Sam, but his worry is already forgotten. “Uncle Sam, did you know that Mr Steve can lift a car?”  
  


* * *

  
Summer rolls past, fast and warm.

They move into the house on August fifth, carrying their meager belongings up the road, box by box. All their stuff isn’t enough to fill the new place, small as it is, since the furniture in the garage upstairs wasn’t Bucky’s to begin with, and despite Bill’s offer to lend it, they leave it behind. For the first two nights all they have is a new, luxuriously spacious bed and not much else: even that feels _too_ big after sleeping in cramped quarters for most of their lives.

On the first morning in the house, Steve lifts Bucky up on the kitchen counter and leans up for a kiss as they wait for the coffee to be done. By the time the spluttering of the coffee machine has stopped, they’re both laughing, lips kiss-bitten and tingling. They eat breakfast outside, sitting on two rickety stools Steve and Charles used to have lunch on, because they don’t have a dining table yet, but Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ever been happier, with the August sun warming his back, and Steve’s head tipped up to admire the house, satisfied and relaxed.

When they come home from dinner with the Meadowses that night, Steve stops at the door, key in lock, and turns to look at Bucky with a contemplative expression. It’s a look that promises wonderful, filthy things with its weight and how Steve’s sizing him up.

“You gonna carry me over the threshold or what, Rogers?” Bucky jokes, because Steve’s attention is doing all kinds of amazing things to him, making him want to squirm, and the front door most definitely isn’t the place to get an erection.

It makes Steve laugh, loud and bright, and he breaks out of it, twisting the key and opening the door. Bucky’s still grinning when Steve turns abruptly and extends his arms with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You know what, Barnes, I just might,” he says, and Bucky barely manages to duck and escape, slipping under Steve’s arm and into the house.

Steve catches him in the foyer, still laughing, and pins him against the wall, hitching Bucky’s legs up around his waist. “Does it matter which threshold it is?” he asks as he proceeds to kiss Bucky breathless. “Because I have very serious plans for taking you to bed.”

“Jury’s still out on that one, but guess we’ll have to see,” Bucky says, painfully hard in his shorts, and Steve grins, hoists him up, and carries him over the bedroom threshold.

**

Charles and Lena bring a lovely, sturdy table as a housewarming present, and Matthew digs four chairs out of his garage, and slowly other things trickle into the house as well: an airy mid-century couch Franklin Todd had saved for his good-for-nothing son who didn’t want it, curtains sewn by Mariyam, a drawing of two stick figures with a bird in front of a house, _Uncle Jaime & Mr Steeve & Ruth _ carefully scrawled under it in Dominic’s shaky penmanship. Bucky and Steve receive everything with reverence: there is so much love carried into the house with every piece of furniture, soft textiles or drawings, and it feels humbling to be its focus.

The ten days leading up to the surgery are busy with getting all their belongings in the right places and finding the perfect angle for the couch, and Bucky’s glad for it. He’s tried to avoid thinking about it as much as possible, even considering calling it all off when the frequency of his headaches abated a little, but he knows that keeping his current arm isn’t a sustainable option. It’s clearly too heavy, and the scans have revealed several weakened joints and components that need upgrading. So technically it’s way smarter to just-- make him _a new arm,_ Jesus Christ.

Steve was right about sparring: it’s been good for him, both to build up strength and in general, as a way to blow off some steam. Bucky hadn’t realized how badly he, too, needed something strenuous and physical until the opportunity was there, and he likes how keyed up Steve gets when they are sparring, ready to pin Bucky against any available surface as soon as the holo feed has been cut off.

Steve’s been training the three high school age kids - Peter, Riri and America - for a bit over two months now, and it’s done him good: he’s less restless in his skin, determined and focused now that he’s got a clear mission and a role in the team, and he adores the kids. They’re a smart bunch, with that same brand of guts and defiance as Steve has always had, and Bucky likes hearing about them even if he’s so far been perfectly content to stay behind when Steve heads off to New York to see them.

They fight a little the closer the surgery gets, stress and anxiety bleeding out over the stupidest things, and every single time they raise their voices, Bucky’s gut clenches with panic, sure that this time will be the charm: Steve will get fed up with Bucky’s shitty attitude and walk out. But he never does, not permanently: Steve might go on a run to let off steam and slam the door on his way out, but he always comes back to make up, no matter whose fault the fight was in the first place.

August 15th comes unceremoniously: they drive down to New York, Steve’s hand straying to Bucky’s thigh more often than not, rubbing comforting circles like he’s trying to drain the stress out of Bucky with his fingertips. It doesn’t work very well, but Bucky’s grateful for it anyway: he knows that the surgery is aiming to replace just his arm from the shoulder joint, but there will be some painstaking work in order to connect his biological nerves with the artificial ones, and just the thought makes him nervous.

_If it doesn’t work,_ he thinks as he closes his eyes and puts his left hand on top of Steve’s, _I can never fly a hawk properly again._

“It will be fine,” Steve says, like he’s reading Bucky’s thoughts, and squeezes his thigh. “I’m sure of it.”

“I hope this won’t be the one time you’re actually wrong about something,” Bucky says miserably. “You will never live it down if it is. My one-armed ass will haunt you to your grave, and you’ll have to learn to man Ruth.”

“I’m always right,” Steve agrees, grinning. “And I’m gonna love your ass whether it comes with one hand or two hands, because _I_ can grab it with both.”

“I’m gonna shove my old arm up _your_ ass just for that, it was terrible,” Bucky says, wrinkling his nose, and Steve tickles his knee.

The last thing Bucky sees before he goes under is Steve’s face; and when he wakes up after the surgery, Steve’s there with his relieved, crooked grin, asking, “Hey, pal, how are you feeling?”

“Floaty,” Bucky slurs, and when Steve takes his left hand, Bucky feels the pressure and the warmth, and everything is so, so light, and absolutely nothing in him aches. “‘S good.”

“You got some good drugs,” Steve agrees, leaning to kiss his forehead. “I’m pretty sure you won’t see your old arm again. Tony’s kind of enamoured with it.”

“He can keep it,” Bucky mumbles back. “The plates pinch anyway,” and Steve snorts, squeezing his hand carefully. It feels really, really nice.

His recovery is speedy: after two days in bed, Bucky gets physio instructions, painkillers, and a follow-up appointment around Halloween, and then they’re already driving home to Maine, Bucky sleeping like a log on the back seat for most of the trip. They’re welcomed back by Bill and Irina, who mothers Bucky to the brink of his sanity, competing with Steve over who gets to hen over Bucky more. He loves every single second, watching the sun move on the wall of their new bedroom as he dozes, tucked under Steve’s arm. He’ll have time to be independent again, later.

Once the nerve pain fades and he gets up again, the headaches and back pain don’t return, no matter how nervously Bucky anticipates them. His balance remains off-kilter for weeks: the new arm is matte gunmetal grey and so light compared to the old one that Bucky constantly stumbles into walls and furniture before he learns to stop leaning to the right.

When his posture is corrected, they find that he’s over an inch taller than they thought.

**

Ruth comes home in the first week of September, just a few days shy of the anniversary of Bucky’s arrival in town.

Bucky’s hands are shaking as he opens her box and reaches in to gently lift her out. She’s grown, visibly bigger than when she left him in the spring, and her new molt is darker: less cinnamon and more espresso, the lines on her chest starker, but there’s still the familiar fluffing effect as the wind catches her feathers.

She’s stiff and suspicious on his new arm as Bucky carefully takes off the hood, and once it’s gone, her head swivels in vigilant half-circles, taking in her surroundings. She doesn’t bate, which is a good sign: she must have at least some kind of memory of the yard and Bucky to stay this calm. Her eyes are less of the bright yellow they were in the spring and more orange, the color slowly shifting towards the full ruby of an adult hawk, but she’s still his baby, one more year to go until she’s considered fully grown.

She’s gorgeous, and Bucky’s heart is beating madly against his ribs as they stare at each other, assessing. Steve’s a warm, steady rock behind Bucky’s back, his hands familiar and grounding on Bucky’s hips. “She’s beautiful,” Steve whispers against his ear, not wanting to spook Ruth, and Bucky nods shallowly in agreement.

That’s when she decides she knows Bucky after all: there’s a small, happy squeal, and suddenly her feathers are fluffing up and she rouses, happy as a clam. Her weight on his new arm feels like a homecoming - a promise of a new autumn and winter together; of a new home and a new life; of hares and pheasants and long strolls in the fields.

“Hey, baby,” he says, tears burning in his throat. “Welcome home.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _I was solid gold_  
>  _I was in the fight_  
>  _I was coming back_  
>  _From what seemed like a ruin_  
>  \- The National: Pink Rabbits  
>   
> Roh on [tumblr](https://rohkeutta.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/badrohmance)  
> Alby on [tumblr](https://artgroves.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_)


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